Conspiracies
by LianneZ4
Summary: His nickname is Mozzie, but the world knows him under a different name. He's a respectable member of society, until suddenly his life is turned upside down. After Mozzie contacts him with a plea for help, Neal will have to use all his skills to protect his friend. However, he doesn't realize that the man on their trail is Peter Burke, the agent who has already captured him once. AU
1. Part I

**CONSPIRACIES**

**Summary: His childhood nickname is Mozzie, but his colleagues and neighbors know him under a different name. He is a respectable member of society, until one day his whole world is turned upside down. After Mozzie contacts him with a plea for help, Neal knows that he will have to use all his skills as a con man to protect his friend. However, what he doesn't realize is that the man on their trail is Peter Burke, the agent who has already captured him once. AU.**

**A/N: **Written for Round 4 of White Collar Big Bang. This story probably never would have been written if not for all the people who had helped me on the way. Of all of them, let me mention:

- the amazing **theatregirl7299** who beta-read the story and had patience with me while I was writing this.

- the folks from the nightly chats at wcwu who listened to my whining, provided support and advice and helped me whenever I got stuck. You're all completely undeniably awesome!

- finally, the absolutely wonderful artist **treonb**, who made me the most awesome promo vid (you can find it here: .com[slash]watch?v=EjcQ7ck8LgI ) and also cheered on me the whole time.

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own White Collar or any of the characters. White Collar is the property of Fox Television Studios and USA Networks._

_As always, reviews are treasured. Please enjoy!_

* * *

**PART I**

It was a cold night in late autumn. The sky was clouded; people on the streets were pulling their coats closer and hurrying to escape the harsh wind. A nasty storm was brewing, and whoever didn't need to be outside wanted to reach their destination as fast as possible. Standing on the rooftop of the Channing Museum, Neal Caffrey smiled.

It was the perfect night for a robbery.

For a moment, he enjoyed the sight of the New York lights surrounding him. It'd been a while—just four days since he had gotten back from Las Vegas. Once again, he felt a wave of contentment and fondness as he stared at the familiar skyline. It was here where he'd met Hale, the gentleman fence who'd once taken him under his wing and given him lessons about high society and class. It was here where he'd met June, the lovely old lady who'd helped him during the first few rough months after getting out, opening both her home and heart to him when she accepted him into her little family. And Ellen—Ellen had moved here a few years back, and Neal visited her as much as he thought they could afford without endangering her safety. And then there were the dozens of less important contacts—people he'd meet for the occasional friendly game of poker; bartenders, curators, acquaintances in museums, theatres, concert halls, dance halls and sport stadiums; policemen, judges, fixers, fences, thieves, forgers.…

And of course Special Agent Peter Burke lived here. Neal felt the familiar mixture of fond amusement and irritation as he imagined Peter's reaction when he had first learned of Neal's current job. Apparently, Peter didn't believe that this line of work was good for Neal's "rehabilitation", and he had expressed that opinion rather vocally. Neal had replied very politely that he had cleared his debt to society fair and square, and that Neal's rehabilitation was none of Peter's business. Peter had expressed his concern for Neal's future. Neal had changed the topic and asked Peter to join him for a drink.

_Rehabilitation. _The counselor back at prison had spoken of it in great lengths. Neal had humored her, attended the suggested courses, played by their rules. But in the end, the concept just fell flat with him.

The first month inside had been one of the lowest points of Neal's life. Being stripped of his freedom, dying of boredom, starving by the lack of beauty… but the worst of it was the sheer heart-shattering loneliness. Ellen couldn't come because of the risks to her safety. Alex had disappeared God knew where. Hale and his wife sent him an occasional letter, but the old man couldn't bring himself to visit – and their association wouldn't have earned Neal any goodwill with the law anyway. And Mozzie… Mozzie would have visited him every week if he could make it happen. It had taken several fights between them before Neal finally persuaded him not to. Although he desperately yearned for company, he also knew that his criminal life had left with enemies, and he couldn't risk any of them finding out about Moz. Besides, his friend was rising fast in the academic circles, making a legitimate life for himself unlike anything Neal had ever managed. Neal didn't want him to be tainted by being associated with a known felon.

Somehow though, Mozzie had still found an excuse to visit every once in a while, especially on Neal's birthdays and for Christmas. Neal couldn't find it in himself to deny them those few precious reunions.

He had seriously considered escaping, even made the necessary preparations. He wasn't sure what had eventually led him to discard the idea. Maybe it was the fact that with time served before his trial and being released early for good behavior, he only had to do three years and two months. And so Neal had focused his whole being on survival and getting out as fast as possible. And in the end, he had succeeded.

Neal took a deep breath of the cold air. Then he released it, enjoying the feeling of freedom as he stood on the rooftop of the museum and stared at the New York lights below.

Yes, there were many cities, but New York … New York was kind of special.

The sound of thunder broke Neal from his musings. It was time to get to business.

After one last glance at his surroundings, Neal turned his attention to a nearby manhole cover; a closed air shaft whose only safety mechanism was a padlock attached at the top. Pulling out his lockpicks, he overcame the obstacle in a matter of seconds. Working fast and quiet, he put on a ski mask and rig of straps and buckles, opened the trapdoor and attached a reel with thin metal cable to the inner side of the manhole. Clipping the cable to his waist, he climbed over the edge of the vent, closed the lid and began lowering himself into the gaping darkness underneath. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he unclipped the buckle from his front and turned on a flashlight. He took a quick look around before swiftly walking to the closed door on the other side of the room. Turning off his flashlight, Neal opened the door the tiniest bit and took a look outside. The coast was clear. Good.

Getting the plans for the gallery had been way too easy, and so far, the information had proven accurate. After waiting another second just to be safe, Neal slipped out into the corridor and made his way to a nearby room, already pulling out his lockpicks again, only to find the door unlocked. He got inside unseen and turned his flashlight back on. He looked around for the electricity maintenance box—and found it right where he had expected it to be. _Thank you, Jack-the-maintenance-man from the pub downtown. _

Opening the box to see the mess of wires and switches, Neal almost sighed. It was interesting—though a bit disconcerting sometimes—how much people would tell you at the right moment, especially once you had earned their trust. Chasing that thought away, he focused back on the problem at hand. He needed to buy himself some time with this—a whole minute so that he could take care of the cameras in the lower level and put them on a loop. Neal pulled out metal clamps and a digital box with numbers and check-digits. He briefly hesitated as he stared at the wires—over the course of his glorious criminal career, making mistakes with technology had almost gotten him caught at least three times—and then he attached the clamps to two clusters of the exposed wires and cast a quick look at the digital box. When everything seemed okay, Neal allowed himself a breath of relief and then a mischievous smile. This was the part when the real fun began.

Ten minutes later, he made it as far as the chamber with his prize when he felt his phone buzz. Neal ignored the vibrations and focused on entering the eight-digit code to open the door, reassured when the buzz stopped a moment later. Then, he entered the chamber.

Even though this wasn't the reason he'd come here, Neal still took a moment to look at everything. Jewelry of all kinds was resting inside showcases; beautiful, sparkling, inviting … no, _begging_ to be admired and taken. But that was not the job tonight. From the moment he entered, Neal had seen the reason he'd come here—a necklace with a huge diamond, the exhibition's most expensive piece that had only recently been added to their collection. He allowed himself another boyish grin and began to unpack his tools.

Lying under the showcase with the diamond, Neal became so focused on his job that the new buzz of his cell phone caught him unprepared. Only years of experience stopped him from jerking in surprise and destroying all of his hard work in a moment of inattention. He released a frustrated breath and quickly arranged things into a temporary makeshift state that wouldn't set off any alarms. Then he finally took out his phone and checked the calling number.

'_Jeez, Moz, not this again!'_ This wasn't really the time to listen to Mozzie's excited rambling about his latest calculations or his newest batch of lab rats.

Neal almost decided to turn the phone off when he realized that this wasn't Mozzie's usual number, but the burner phone that Neal had got him a while back. Then he noticed that his friend had also sent him a text message. With a mild frown and some curiosity, he clicked on the envelope icon to find what this all had been about.

The message made his blood turn cold.

'CODE RED. CALL ME!'

He quickly dialed the return call. "What's going on, Moz?" he asked in a muted voice.

"_Neal? Is that really you? … Oh my God, I said your name. Did I – wait…What if…what if you're – " _Mozzie's voice wavered and then abruptly cut short.

Neal would have rolled his eyes in amused exasperation, if not for the scared undertone he heard in Mozzie's words. "It's okay, Moz. What's going on? Why did you text me?"

There was a long silence.

"Moz?"

Nothing.

Impatiently, Neal cast a look at his watch. "Look, I'm really busy there. I'll call you later, okay?"

"_NO!" _

Neal almost dropped the phone at the yell from the other side of the line. "Jeez, don't do that!"

"_Are you alone? How do I know it's really you? ... What's your code phrase?"_

His _code_ _phrase?_

They had made those up as kids, when they played games in the old neighborhood. Later, they had used it when Neal was running from the law to make sure that both he and Mozzie remained safe. However, to ask for it now…

Neal's irritation at being interrupted in the middle of a heist won his concern and curiosity. He gritted: "_'The swallow's back from Paris'_, yes, I'm alone and you know it's me by my voice, or thanks to the code phrase or maybe because you just _called_ me on this number. What do you need, Moz?"

"_But what if they tricked you into revealing it, or if they're using a voice changer? You've said –"_

"I know what I have said," Neal interrupted him tiredly. He had never thought that teaching Mozzie to take precautions would become so… bothersome sometimes.

"_You __**could**__ be a decoy to lure me out! What if they already got to you?"_

Neal wanted to snap and hang up, but something stopped him. It took him a second before he realized what it was.

_Fear._ There was genuine panic and terror in his friend's voice. Neal didn't know what caused it, but it didn't matter. He couldn't hang up on Mozzie in this state, even if it should lead to him being back in cuffs.

_And who the hell were "they"?_

In a gentler voice, he asked: "Hey, why don't you tell me what's really going on?"

Mozzie didn't reply.

Neal silently counted to ten. "Look, you can ask me a question only I'd know an answer to. You know I'd never betray you, right?"

"_What was the first thing you ever gave to me?"_ asked Mozzie hesitantly at last.

"Your Rubik's cube," answered Neal immediately. "Josh and his gang took it away from you. I stole it back." _That was when we became friends._

A pause. _"For the record – I could have done it myself,"_ said the voice on the other line eventually and Neal smiled in relief. _"Neal, I'm sorry that I —"_

"It's okay," Neal interrupted him. He took a deep breath. "Now, why don't you tell me what's going on?"

"_I'm at your safehouse. The one in—the yellow one! I'm at the yellow safehouse."_

"What?" asked Neal in disbelief.

He had told Mozzie about several of his safehouses. However, he had never expected him to actually use one.

"_It's __'cheesecake'.__ Wait, scratch that—it's __'Bermuda shorts'__! Sweet Moses—what if they're tracking this? Can they be tracking us?"_

"Mozzie, CALM DOWN!" said Neal urgently before his friend got all worked up all over again. "Whatever it is, it's gonna be fine, okay?"

For a moment, there was quiet.

"_You're right; it's a burner phone, so they shouldn't know. And I don't think they followed me here.… Look, Neal, I'm not good at this stuff!"_ Mozzie swallowed. _"There are these people, and ... I don't know what to do. I need your help."_

"Okay," said Neal after a pause. "Okay, I'll be there. Give me.…" He checked the time and made some quick calculations. "Give me four hours, okay? Just wait there and I'll get there as fast as I can."

"_I'll wait."_ And then Mozzie hung up, and there was just silence at the other side of the line.

For a second, Neal just stared at the display of his cell phone. When he finally realized he was still lying under the showcase with the diamond, a short grim smile passed over his face at the irony of the situation. However, the job had just jumped a long way down on his list of priorities.

'Cheesecake' had once used to mean 'green aliens attacking' while 'Bermuda shorts' stood for 'Imperial takeover'. Neither of these really gave him a good clue about Mozzie's problem.

This was not good. The last time Mozzie made a distress call like this was after the death of his adoptive mother. Something was obviously going on, and Neal didn't like it one little bit. To make matters worse, he still had to take care of that bloody diamond.

Well, at least that one he could deal with right away, thought Neal as he picked up his tools once again.

Two minutes later, he held the diamond in his hands. He tore a page out of his notebook and scribbled some quick words. Then he put the diamond back together with the note and quickly worked to restore the showcase to its former state. Precision was no longer a priority.

As he walked out of the Channing, he heard the sound of thunder. The storm had just broken out.

His family needed him. He had to get to Moz as fast as possible.

o - o - o

Peter was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling while listening to the raindrops pondering the window outside. El had fallen asleep nearly an hour ago; however for Peter, sleep still evaded him, despite the fact that it was well past midnight. He couldn't stop thinking about his day, which had been... well, the nicest way to call it would be "bad". Peter thought "a freaking nightmare" would be a more accurate description.

Their takedown of a suspect had been one of the worst of Peter's career. Gabriela Ponder had decided that she wouldn't go quietly and turned the situation into an armed confrontation. She had ended up almost killing one of their agents before Jones's shot took her down. The situation took an even more tragic turn when they found that Ponder's seven years old son had been in the apartment and witnessed the whole thing.

The kid shouldn't have been there. He should have been staying with his father on the other side of the city. They'd come to arrest an embezzling CEO; it should have been a peaceful and quiet surrender – Peter shouldn't have had to hold a screaming child while they took his mother away in an ambulance. The poor boy should have never witnessed his mother being arrested, much less being shot and bleeding on her over-expensive carpet.

Jones looked like he might throw up afterwards. Gregory, their injured agent, had thankfully been only grazed and was expected to make a full recovery. Gabriela Ponder's state was still uncertain. When – if – she recovered, she was going to face an attempted murder charge on top of the previous embezzling.

When Peter finally got home, it was very late. It was only when he saw Elizabeth's stiff expression that he remembered that they should have had a dinner together. Once he explained, El immediately turned from annoyed to understanding and sympathetic. Yet Peter didn't miss how she tensed up when he talked about the takedown gone awry.

Peter sighed.

While El would never try to talk him out of being an agent, she hated it when his cases turned dangerous. What's more, this was the third time in a row he had cancelled on her. Peter didn't want to become the kind of man who couldn't keep his word and neglected the woman he loved.

Suddenly, El shifted in the bed next to him. "P'tr? Wha'z it?"

Peter smiled at her. "Nothing. Go back to sleep, hon."

"Love you…"

Peter's throat tightened. "Me too."

_I love you._

He watched the outline of her face in the dim light of the street lanterns. She looked gorgeous with her hair spread on the pillow, her face eased except for a tiny smile. Gently touching her hand, Peter broke into a full-blown grin when El squeezed his fingers.

For a long while, he remained content just watching her sleep. _She was so incredible…_

The sound of thunder was so loud that Peter snapped up in his bed and cast a wild look around.

Elizabeth fidgeted a bit next to him.

Belatedly, Peter realized the source of the disturbance. However, that didn't stop him from climbing out of the bed and looking around for anything suspicious or out of place.

He went to check the window. The rain was heavy now, the earlier drizzle turning into full-blown streams of water that kept hitting the glass in a myriad of huge drops. However, the street was quiet, and so seemed the surrounding houses. There was no apparent reason for Peter's anxiety.

And yet the feeling wouldn't leave him. Something was nagging at his mind, an unknown disturbance was yelling at him that something was horribly wrong.

It was the case, he thought as he listened to the wind blowing outside. It was no wonder he had trouble falling asleep after a day like that. He hoped that Jones was alright, and his heart felt heavy as a stone whenever he thought of the little boy (Tommy had been his name, he remembered, Tommy with wide brown eyes who screamed and kicked and stared at them in horror and hatred until the boy's hurriedly called father finally arrived and took him home).

Casting one last look at Elizabeth, Peter slipped out of the room to get a cup of water or maybe a glass of something stronger. He turned on the small lamp in the kitchen and leaned against the fridge. His eyes fell on several invitations for an upcoming charity event, four different options that El had brought home with her with the intention of showing them to her client tomorrow.

Peter recalled her mentioning that June Ellington would be present for that event. That meant that Neal Caffrey would likely be there as well.

_Caffrey. _

Staring at the invitations, Peter allowed himself to temporarily forget the tragic takedown. Instead, he thought of the man who he had first met about ten years ago, slipping into the soothingly familiar mindset of fondness and exasperation.

Their chase had been fun – more fun than Peter would probably admit aloud. At first, catching Neal had been only about arresting the con man – but that was before the notes; before pizza and wine deliveries, before the late-night phone calls, before Neal reminding him of his wedding anniversary. It had become personal; a challenge, an exciting competition between the two of them. However, in the end, it came down to the fact that Neal was a con man and Peter an FBI agent, and Peter had a job to do.

He had been chasing Neal for nearly four years when he noticed something on the cards that Neal had been sending him – specifically, their postmarks. Neal was too smart to send the cards from the place where he was staying. However, there had been a pattern… and finally, combined with a slip Neal had made during one of their phone calls, Peter had figured it out.

He didn't know where exactly Neal was staying, but he could significantly narrow down the options. And that, combined with his gut feeling, his knowledge of the con man and the considerable resources on his disposal, had finally paid off. In the end, he had arrested Neal – not during an exchange as he had hoped, but as Neal was about to exit his hotel room and leave for the airport. Trapped between the full White Collar force, the Marshals and a SWAT team, Caffrey had attempted one last escape – and run straight into Peter who had been waiting there for him. With a smile on his lips that almost masked the fear in his eyes, a dozen guns aimed in his direction and with a nod of head as he finally acknowledged his defeat, Neal surrendered to him and let himself be led away in cuffs.

Peter felt victorious for winning the challenge that had left so many other agencies helpless, felt almost smug for finally beating Neal in their cat and mouse game. And yet after he had arrested Neal, a small part of him mourned the expected loss of his and Neal's relationship as playful adversaries. Although he had always believed that catching Neal was the only possible outcome, he had used Neal's postcards to track him and that probably came with a price.

Except Neal kept sending him cards from prison, and when he was finally released, he greeted Peter with his tell-tale smile and genuine happiness in his eyes. The only acknowledgment of the past was that Neal's notes never had postmarks anymore.

Peter could live with that.

He and Neal had met several times over the past two years when Peter had accompanied El to her events. Once or twice, they'd even had a couple drinks together. Neal still liked to needle him, like when he left his latest birthday card directly on Peter's desk at the FBI (and Peter _still_ had no idea how it had gotten there). Bantering with Neal was always fun. Which was why Peter secretly hated Neal's new job as a "security consultant".

Breaking into places, studying flaws in "unbreakable" security… Peter feared that ultimately, this line of work would make Neal once again succumb to temptation and return to his old line of job. And while the chase had been fun, Peter much more preferred seeing Caffrey free and happy rather than putting him back behind bars.

With a shake of his head, Peter finished his glass of water. Then he put it on the counter and returned upstairs to join Elizabeth in her sleep.

o - o - o

It was five a.m. in the morning when Paul Handerson, known to his closest friends as Mozzie or just Moz, was standing in the bathroom of a rather poorly looking apartment. His back pressed to the wall right next to the door, Paul – Mozzie – was intently listening for the slightest disturbance. In his hand, he was clutching a small but surprisingly heavy stoneware vase – not the best defense in the world, but Paul had thought it would give him at least some feeling of safety.

'_The house of delusions is cheap to build but drafty to live in.'_

In other words, Paul was silently cursing Neal up and down for his attitude about guns and weapons in general.

The scientific part of Paul's brain that always calculated the statistics told him with an equable certainty that no weapon would help him against the group of obviously trained professionals who had turned his life upside down just a few hours ago. The same part of his brain also stated that the chances that Neal would make it there before the men in black suits were very slim. Paul was no master of diversion. He may think he had lost them, but it was far more likely that they were already outside and that any time now they would burst inside. And this time, the guns aimed at his face wouldn't stay silent.

He wished he hadn't left the burner phone on the other side of the room. He wanted to call his dad and tell him how much he loved him.

'_In the end, we all die alone...'_

Suddenly, he heard the hallway door click. With determination, Paul firmly clutched the vase and pressed his back even closer to the wall.

"Moz?" called the voice from the hallway.

Still clutching the vase, Paul pushed the bathroom door open and stumbled into the hallway. A second later, his stomach dropped when he saw a figure dressed in all-black – he realized that he might have made a horrendous mistake in revealing his position – but then he saw the newcomer's face and broke into a huge relieved smile.

"Neal!"

"Hey!" With a few swift steps, Neal closed the distance between them and pulled Mozzie into a tight hug. "It's so good to see you. It's been what – six months?"

"'_Every parting gives a foretaste of death, every reunion a hint of resurrection.'_" Taking a deep breath, Mozzie allowed himself to envelop his shaking hands arms around Neal and giddily rest his head against Neal's shoulder. "Thanks for coming."

"You're family. What was I going to do, not come?" Neal held him for a few seconds before he pulled away. He stared at the vase in Mozzie's hand before he gave him a curious smirk. "A vase but no flowers? Moz, I'm hurt."

"Seriously? You're such a girl sometimes," replied Moz with a roll of his eyes.

"Oh really? I wasn't the one who had–"

"We've agreed to never ever speak of that again!" exclaimed Moz loudly. "Ever!"

"Really?"

"Yes!" nodded Mozzie empathically.

"Fine." Neal chuckled before he turned serious. "Okay, as much as I love to see you again, I don't think you called me because you wanted to reminisce about our misspent youth. So what's going on?"

Mozzie took a deep breath. "I think you better sit down, Neal."

Neal lifted his eyebrows before his expression turned to one of concern. "Is it your dad?" he asked quietly.

"No, it's..." Mozzie shook his head. "Let's sit down," he repeated.

"Okay."

They took place on a couch.

"So what is it?" asked Neal finally when Moz couldn't bring himself to open the subject.

"Is this place safe?" asked Mozzie.

"I have someone watching, if that's your concern. And it's clean. I'm sure. We're gonna be safe here at least until dawn."

Until dawn. That gave them some two or three hours. That should be more than enough to tell Neal everything. Except...

_Saying it aloud would make it feel real._

"Moz?"

But it already was real. And now that he had involved Neal, he didn't have a choice but to tell him.

Mozzie took a deep breath. "I – it started like this..."

When he finished his tale half an hour later, Neal was gaping at him with disbelief in his eyes.

"Jeez Moz, that's... What do you need me to do?" he asked at last in a strained voice.

Mozzie touched Neal's hand. "I need your help," he replied, his heart beating so fast he thought it would burst out of his chest. "I need the help of the great Neal Caffrey. ... Neal, I need you to help me disappear."

Seconds ticked away and the silence in the room grew impossibly heavy. Then Neal finally nodded his head.

"Okay."


	2. Part II

_A/N: Thank you everyone who has reviewed. Enjoy the next part!_

* * *

**PART II **

**One week later**

"Hey boss…"

Peter looked up from the file and smiled at the person at the door. However, the look on her face told him that he wouldn't like what she came to tell him. "Diana. What is it?"

"Do you remember that break-in at MoMA in San Francisco two days ago?" asked Diana grimly.

"Yeah, I remember," said Peter. "What is going on?"

"There was some DNA material on the scene. Given the amount of people that pass through, they didn't really expect much to come out of it, so the lab was really surprised when they found a match to our database…"

She handled Peter the file to look for himself.

Curiously, Peter opened the file and quickly scanned through the first two pages until he finally found the information on the third one. The San Francisco agents had found several hairs in the room with the stolen piece. It turned out that one of the hairs belonged to…

Peter's stomach dropped. "This doesn't have to mean anything," he said crisply at last. "He works security checks now, right? What if –"

"I spoke to Rollings, the leader of the San Francisco team," informed him Diana. "They talked to the people at the museum. They didn't have any contract with him, Peter."

**DNA MATCH – Neal Caffrey**, stared at him in bold black letters.

Peter flipped through the file as in hopes of finding something to dispel the quickly developing feeling of dread.

"He could have been just a visitor," he suggested, but his voice lacked conviction.

"It gets worse," continued Diana. "Rollings contacted the security company that Caffrey freelances for. Peter, they say they haven't had any contact with him in a week. It seems like he just disappeared in the middle of one of his jobs."

A Mondrian had been stolen; gone without a trace. Caffrey's DNA had been found on the crime scene. Neal suddenly stopped coming to work a week ago, just four days before the robbery. With that additional bit of information, Peter had no choice but to face the fact that it looked extremely suspicious. He wouldn't be sure until he saw it for himself, but – Peter swallowed – but right now, it seemed that Neal Caffrey had indeed returned back to his life of crime.

"Damn it, Neal."

He shouldn't be surprised, thought Peter numbly. After all, hadn't he been thinking about this scenario just a few days ago? And yet, a part of him was so – dismayed._ Disappointed_ was probably the right word. After all, it had been only a month since he saw Neal during one of El's events, and he seemed content. He had thought – well, Peter wasn't sure what he had thought.

How had he missed this?

_Damn it!_

"I need to speak with Hughes," said Peter suddenly and stood up. If Caffrey was back to the life, he needed to – well, he couldn't stay away.

He just hoped that his boss would understand.

o - o - o

Peter needn't been worried about Hughes's approval. In fact, it turned out that the leader of the San Francisco department actually requested his consult on the case. So now there he was, hundreds of miles away from home, talking to Edgar Rollings' team and going over the evidence with them. So far, they had found nothing that would further prove Neal's guilt or point to a different culprit; however, Rollings believed that sooner or later, they would find some sort of clue.

Peter wasn't so sure, however.

The thief – whoever he was – hadn't left behind a forgery. That deviated from Neal's usual MO, but Peter knew that there had been occasions when Neal hadn't replaced his scores with look-alikes. Usually he did that, but not always.

The proof came a few hours later when they were watching the feeds from the museum and the surrounding buildings.

They couldn't get a good look at the face of the man on the street. However, the way he moved was rather familiar, and his clothes and boldness told Peter everything he needed to know.

'_Gotcha,'_ he thought smugly – and despite the lingering feeling of disappointment, he was surprised by an equally strong wave of the familiar excitement and exhilaration. But he couldn't help it – the chase was back on.

"That's him," he said to Rollings and pointed to the screen.

The faceless figure would be no good in court, Peter knew that. They had the DNA and some circumstantial evidence, but it wasn't sufficient proof yet. He would need more if he wanted to catch Neal again.

'_Damn it, Caffrey,'_ he thought silently, but it no longer held that bitter anger from before. Once again, Peter had to admire Neal's craftiness; his ability, his daring and his sheer cheekiness. He was sure that Neal wouldn't stop at this one job. No, others would follow, and eventually Peter would catch him again. Neal would be convicted and locked up – and that thought send a cold shiver up Peter's spine – but there was a part of Peter that was thrilled by the prospect of the renewed challenge.

He _would_ catch Neal, thought Peter a bit ruefully, and then there would be nothing to save Neal from the consequences of his latest bad choice. And yet as he stared at the screen, he couldn't beat down the familiar rush of excitement and almost childish glee. Peter realized that he was already looking forward to the chase, to trying to outsmart Neal and make the score 2:0. He was giddy at once again having such a worthy opponent, and he almost look forward to Neal's first card, his first phone call.

He could already see what the card would say: _'You won't catch me so easily this time, Peter. XOXO, Neal.'_

Almost against himself, Peter smiled. Then he turned on the footage of Neal once again.

o - o - o

Meanwhile, several hundred miles away, Neal was walking through a street of mostly abandoned houses and storage units. A couple of bags in one hand, a paper-cup of coffee in the other, he finally came to a specific warehouse. At first glance, it didn't look any different or less desolate than any of the other places. Only someone extremely observant might notice the small hidden camera that was surveying the space in front of the warehouse.

After checking once more that he hadn't been followed, Neal opened the iron door and slipped inside. He looked all over the large open space before he finally spotted Mozzie. With a pang of worry, Neal noticed that Mozzie was sitting in the same armchair where he had left him two hours ago when he had gone out to get them some food and supplies. He put the bags on the floor, carefully placed his coffee on an old wooden table and went to check on his friend. As he came closer, he noticed that Mozzie's head had fallen and that he was sound asleep.

Judging by the dark circles under Mozzie's eyes, some sleep would probably do him a world of good, so Neal didn't even attempt to wake him up. Instead, he went back to the abandoned bags and pulled out a box of rice and some vegetables. Setting the ingredients up on the table, he took a sip of the coffee that was quickly growing cold. Finally, turning on the propane camping stove, Neal began preparing them some risotto for dinner.

He was just pouring the boiling water over Mozzie's cup of tea when he heard something stir behind him.

"Hey, Moz," said Neal quietly. "How are you holding up?"

Mozzie's eyes snapped open as he violently jerked up in the armchair and cast a quick glance around. "Oh, good," he answered a split second later. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me." A pause. "So. How did your trip go? Did you get what you wanted?"

Neal smiled. "Well, I've learned that shopping for gluten-free food is more of a challenge than I expected. But I think I got everything we need."

"So, that's… good, then?" asked Mozzie uncertainly.

"Yeah, that's good. And I got you your favorite tea," continued Neal optimistically. "You want to try it?"

"Oh." Mozzie stared at the small cup offered by Neal. "You brought me – tea."

"Is that okay?"

"… Yeah, tea's – good." After a moment of hesitation, Mozzie stood up and carefully took the cup from Neal's hands before sitting back down into his armchair. He inhaled the scent of the tea and gave Neal a tiny smile. "Jasmine. Thanks, Neal." He took a small sip.

Turning down the flame on the stove and collecting his own cup of coffee, Neal took an old rickety chair and placed it opposite to his friend. For a moment, they remained in silence.

"So, is it safe here, or are we going to move again?" asked Mozzie at last.

"Well, as far as inconspicuousness goes, you won't find many places better than this one," answered Neal with a grimace. "It won't be for long. Once I finish making our new aliases, I will find us something nicer."

"I didn't think you stayed at places like this," admitted Mozzie.

"I don't, usually," replied Neal. _More like never._ "But after the hotel…"

"You wanted to make sure that nobody would look for us there."

"Yeah. I thought we would be better off taking no chances for a while."

Mozzie paused. "_'We come into the world laden with the weight of an infinite necessity.'_"

Neal chuckled. "That's certainly one way of putting it." He pretended that he hadn't heard the strained undertone in Mozzie's forcedly calm voice. He stood up. "All right. Let me check on our dinner…"

Neal's cheerful smile vanished the moment he turned away from Mozzie, replaced with a look of worry and tiredness. Casting a quick look around, Neal had to concede that Moz had a point. The warehouse was dirty, cold and filled with old, unused stuff. But then it had never been supposed to become Neal's hiding place. He had bought the warehouse years ago under one of his old identities, with the intent to use it for a con that had later fallen through. He hadn't even thought about it until two days ago, when someone started asking for "Neal Caffrey", "Steve Tabernacle" and "Gary Rydell" at the hotel where he and Moz had been staying. Not believing for a second that it could be a coincidence, Neal had immediately told Moz to pack their things while he cleaned the room of any clues and got rid of everything that could be tracked to him or his past.

Despite his cautiousness, they had almost been found – and what was worse, Neal still had no idea how that happened. Therefore, they needed to go deep underground, lay as low as possible. Unfortunately, that also meant they had been cut off from most of Neal's old resources. The warehouse had been a calculated risk – but Neal was almost sure that nobody, neither the various law agencies nor any of his once-time accomplices, knew anything about the place.

Under any other circumstances, Neal wouldn't have been so cautious. But it wasn't just about him anymore. Neal had a responsibility towards Mozzie.

There would be no taunting the law enforcement; no pizzas or cards or phone calls. The interesting thing was that Neal didn't feel even the slightest bit tempted. No, this time he wouldn't be cocky, wouldn't take any bone-headed risks. Whoever wanted to get to Moz would have to get through Neal first, and he wouldn't make it any easier on them. It was the least that Neal owed Moz for the two decades of their friendship.

He wished he knew how to cheer Moz up.

Casting his thoughts aside, Neal stirred the risotto and took a small spoonful before he nodded and decided that it was done. He purposefully put on a carefree smile before he turned to Moz. "Hey, bro. Dinner's ready."

o - o - o

"You really need all of this," stated Mozzie skeptically.

"Yep," replied Neal in concentration.

"So that's… what, four types of ink?"

"That's it," nodded Neal as he began to set the equipment on the table.

"What's so special about this paper?"

"It's the same kind that they use for your ID," explained Neal patiently and tried to keep a level tone when Mozzie picked up several of the sheets and started examining them with a scientific curiosity. "I'll do four sets of identity cards, some drivers' licenses and then four versions of our passports. That should be enough to cover us for a while."

"And then we just… fly away."

"Not quite."

Mozzie put the papers back. "I don't understand."

With an internal groan, Neal realized that Mozzie wouldn't let him simply work in peace without getting some answers. He put down his pen and looked up at him. "What don't you understand?"

"This!" Mozzie threw up his arms in frustration.

Giving up, Neal put his face in his hands. A moment later, he looked up and gave Moz a strained smile. "Look, why don't you let me worry about the fugitive stuff. I have it in hand, okay?"

"I want to help!" snapped Mozzie stubbornly. "Neal, I've been hiding around there for three days! I can't go out, I can't do anything… Do you even know how that feels?"

Neal stilled.

A second later, Mozzie's expression turned to horrified as he realized what he had just blurted. "Oh my – I'm sorry, man. Neal, I – I didn't mean that. That was stupid. I didn't mean it."

"I know, Moz," replied Neal steadily.

"No, I really –"

"It's okay," Neal interrupted him firmly. His imprisonment hadn't been Mozzie's fault. Besides, right now Moz looked like he was about to run away, and Neal's heart broke a bit for him.

"You know what, maybe you can help me," he said thoughtfully. "Do you think you could try to come up with some names for us?"

Mozzie immediately perked up and smiled. "Of course! Who do you take me for? _I_ have the imagination of Picasso and the creativity of Leonardo. You've certainly come to the right place!" He paused. "Okay, what about Dante… Haversham? Dante Haversham? Or maybe… Ludwig – Ozzwald. No, wait, wait, I got it – _Albert Wonka!_"

Oh dear.

Then Mozzie visibly deflated. "Aw, damn. They're not very good, are they? Too conspicuous, right? So… Jack Smith? James Brown?"

Neal shook his head. "Actually, if people are looking for you, using a name like 'Jack Smith' might set off warning bells simply because it will look like an alias. You're better off with something that's not so common, but neither unusual enough to be memorable."

Mozzie paused. "The art of hiding in plain sight. I like it. So _that_ means I need a common first name and a less common surname, or the other way around."

Neal smiled. "Now you're catching on."

Mozzie shrugged. "Sounds logical."

The warehouse turned quiet once again as Neal got back to working on their identity cards while Mozzie observed the process in silence.

"So then… what's the next step?" asked Moz a moment later.

"Well, I'll have to take your picture for the ID, and then – "

"I – I wasn't talking about that," interrupted Mozzie quietly. "I mean, what happens _next_? You know, afterwards. When you've – done your magic, finished the passports… what happens then?"

"When I finish this batch, we'll move out of this place and hopefully find an apartment or a hotel to stay," explained Neal. "Then I'll contact a guy in Phoenix who should be able to find a permanent solution for your problem."

"You mean he'll get these guys off my back?" asked Mozzie hopefully. "I'll be able to go home?"

Neal hated to crush the sheer excitement in his friend's voice. "Not that kind of solution. I'm sorry Moz."

"Then what – "

"He'll give you a whole new identity," explained Neal. "A _permanent_ identity, something the government won't be able to crack. "

"Wait a second. So the thing you're doing now – "

"Buys us time. Three to five weeks, maybe even two months if we're lucky. But given how determined these people seem to be to find you, it will only slow them down, not guarantee your long-term safety. So we'll fake your death –"

"My _death_?" squealed Mozzie.

"Yes, your death. And right afterwards, we'll move you out of the country and you'll assume your new identity." Neal gave him an encouraging smile. "You should start thinking of a place you'd like. Since extradition's not an issue, you have the whole world to choose from. I wouldn't recommend Canada, Mexico, some of the European countries and China, but there are still plenty of options left for you. Maybe Australia? Or there are plenty other options – "

"Australia."

"Yeah, that's –"

"You're telling me to move to – Australia."

Neal nodded. "Well, that's one of the options – "

"Neal, I don't want to go to _Australia_!" exclaimed Mozzie in dismay. "Isn't there – I don't know. Isn't there another way?"

"Well, what did you expect, Moz?" replied Neal, his patience beginning to run out. "You asked me to help you disappear, did you think it would be a walk in the park? You have a group of trained professionals after you –"

"Do I?"

Neal stilled. "What do you mean?"

Mozzie looked at him with such a self-doubt and anguish that Neal's heart froze. "What if I'm – what if none of this is real? I mean, some crazy government people hunting me? Like _that's_ gonna happen. I'm a good scientist, Neal, but I'm not worth this. Besides, life's not a spy novel. What if there's no conspiracy there? What if it's –" Mozzie paused.

"Yes?" asked Neal softly.

Moz looked away. "What if – you've heard of my condition. What if – you know, the delusions and paranoia – I haven't been taking my pills in years," he said abruptly. "They made me feel weird, and I thought that – but what if I'm making this up?"

Oh God.

Suddenly, Neal felt old and weary. "Moz –"

"Do I really have people after me?" interrupted him Mozzie. "Why are we running from place to place when we never even meet the people who are supposedly looking for me? And who are they anyway? This doesn't make any sense!"

"How long has this been on your mind?" asked Neal gently.

Moz looked away. "Pretty much the whole week," he mumbled dimly.

Neal closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for not foreseeing this.

_He should have damn well known. _

Releasing a mental sigh, he opened his eyes and looked back at his friend. "First of all, the fact that we haven't yet run into anyone doesn't mean that there is nobody after you – it _means_ I've been doing a decent job on keeping us safe. If we had actually met the people who are looking for you, then we would have been in _really_ big trouble."

"But –"

"I'm serious."

"But why? You always ran in close with the FBI," opposed Moz with a frown. "I mean, all the times you told me about those hairbreadth escapes – jumping from moving trains, climbing the airshafts, running through fire escapes, parachuting from the French embassy – "

"The good old days," said Neal with a brief smile. Then he turned serious. "I was – younger, brasher, more arrogant… I played with fire, taunted my opponents – and I got caught. So however I used to wait until the FBI was closing in just for the thrill of it – that's over now. From now on, if I have even the slightest suspicion that something's wrong, we're moving." He gave Moz a small smile to take away some of the graveness of his statement. "I'm afraid that's a no to the parachuting. Sorry if you were looking forward to that."

There was a long pause.

"But how do you know it's not all in my head?" asked Mozzie vulnerably.

"Because the night after we talked, I had a friend poke around," answered Neal with a sigh. "She's a hacker – one of the best. She specializes in uncovering corruption and the usual ugly business that some of the big corporations get involved in."

"She fights for the commoners?"

"That's one way of putting it," Neal smirked. "We met a couple years back. I didn't find out who she was until later. The point is, I asked her for a favor, so she checked out a few things for me."

"And?" asked Mozzie.

"I didn't really understand at first before I've done some research." Neal ran a tired hand over his face. "Have you ever heard of MKUltra, MKDELTA or Operation ARTICHOKE?"

"Of course I've heard of them. Everybody knows those," answered Mozzie dismissively. "It's from the 1950s. Those were projects run by the CIA to research interrogation methods and mind control. Supposedly, they stopped in the 1970s. … I've got perfect recall," he said in a defensive tone. "I stopped researching those theories years ago, but I couldn't just forget what I already knew."

"Hey, I believe you," reassured him Neal. "Even if I didn't, I'm not judging you."

"Thanks, man," replied Moz. "But I still don't understand what – "

Suddenly, he froze.

"You're saying that – " Mozzie paused. "I mean, after seeing the lab, I knew that – I thought it was possible, but… This can't be true," he whispered.

"I'm afraid it is."

"But –"

"I'm sorry Moz," said Neal gently.

"But – my research…" Mozzie gave Neal a desperate look. "I wanted to help people, Neal."

"I know."

"Did they use it? Did they use _my research_ to – **"**

"We can't tell," replied Neal grimly. "What's important is that the CIA knows that you've come across their lab. That's the reason why they want to catch you – to find out what you know, discover who you've talked to… silence you before you have the chance to divulge what you know to anyone else."

For a moment, Mozzie stared into nothingness. Neal let him, giving him time and space to process what he had just learned.

"The CIA," said Moz at last.

"It looks like it."

"This isn't just going away, is it."

"No Moz. I'm sorry."

Unexpectedly, Mozzie turned to him with a downcast expression in his face. "You didn't really believe me when I told you what happened. That's why you decided to check it out."

"I believed you."

"Oh please, Neal –"

"_**I believed you," **_repeated Neal insistently. "I contacted Sally because I needed to know what we're up against."

"You don't have to lie to me –"

"I'm not lying. Look, I might disagree with you about the Moon landing and some other things, but I trust you. I'd always listen to what you have to say. You're family, Moz. Don't you ever forget that."

Mozzie searched his face for any sign of deception. Neal firmly held his stare, not giving away the slightest hint of doubts.

"Thank you, Neal," he stated at last.

"You're welcome."

For a moment, there was silence.

Then Neal shook his head and the emotional moment passed. He looked back down at the passports. "Okay, I need to finish these. If you don't mind –"

"Could you teach me?" asked Mozzie suddenly.

"What?"

"Could you teach me how to make an ID," elaborated Mozzie. "They're already treating me like a criminal. I thought that – maybe it might come in handy."

For a moment, Neal considered the odd request. Then he gave a sharp nod.

"Okay."

o - o - o

The storage unit was alighted by one sole light bulb. As he sat at their only table across to Neal, Mozzie glanced at his wristwatch: four minutes to midnight. Feeling both tired and irritated, Moz cast a longing look both at his bed (equipped with silk pajamas that protected him well enough from his atopic eczema and regular bed sheets that were a lost cause) and at the bottle of wine that Neal had confiscated when he had begun this grueling exercise.

"Where were you born?" asked Neal for the fourth time that night.

"In a small village in California. You wouldn't have heard of it."

"Where did you go to college?"

"I… didn't. My uncle got me a job with his company. Neal, is this really –"

"My name's not Neal," interrupted him Neal firmly.

"Right, _Eddie_." Mozzie just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "But seriously? There's no need for this. You know I have perfect recall, I can keep my facts straight –"

"Facts aren't enough. You're taking on a whole new personality. You have to act like them, think like them, accept their beliefs and mannerism."

Mozzie groaned. "I get it, okay? I'll –"

"Back to Jack Specter," said Neal relentlessly, and Mozzie wanted to scream.

Right, Jack Specter. He was second of the temporary identities that Neal has drafted for him. Thirty-six years old, photographer, a bit of a baseball fan, read newspapers every morning as he drank his cup of coffee. Unlike another two of his new aliases, Jack Specter knew Neal – knew "Jeremy Fields", a reporter who worked at the same newspaper as "Jack".

Neal waited for a moment before Mozzie reluctantly gave him a nod in confirmation that he was ready. "I'm good."

"Okay." Neal took a few seconds to give Mozzie an encouraging look before putting back the emotionless blank face. And the interrogation went on.

Twenty minutes later, after being caught in a contradiction for the fifth time that session, Mozzie's bed and wine looked even more appealing.

"Wrong," stated Neal with obvious annoyance. "How can you _not_ recognize the town in the movie when you supposedly spent a year living there? You can't – "

"Okay! I'm sorry!" Mozzie tried to keep a level voice. "Let's face it, Neal. I'm clearly a hopeless case –"

"No. No, I'm sorry," replied Neal in a much softer tone. "I keep forgetting that you – I pushed too hard. You're doing good, Moz."

"I'm not. I keep screwing up."

"That?" Neal snorted. "Most people wouldn't have caught that slip even if they were paying full attention to you. If you were to be a front man in a con, that could be a problem, but – look, all we need is to stay off the radar while we travel. And you're more than prepared for that."

"Are you sure?" asked Mozzie.

"Absolutely."

Mozzie bit the inside of his mouth before he nodded. "Thanks, Neal."

Neal smiled. "Come on. I think that's enough. Let's open that Merlot."

"Finally!" Mozzie perked up. Within seconds, he had his hands on the corkscrew and poured the wine into their glasses.

"To the perfect aliases," stated Mozzie.

"To friends," corrected him Neal gently.

Mozzie swallowed. "Right. To friends."

They clinked the glasses.

"Is it always like this?" asked Mozzie suddenly.

"What?"

"This…"

The life that Neal had described before prison and even afterwards sounded exciting and glamorous; like he had continued playing their childhood games and never grown up. But the Neal across Moz was sharp, troubled with worry.

There were days when Moz had doubts about his life; so equable, so ordinary, so… common. Working fifty, sometimes more hours a week, doing a job that was usually frustrating, tedious and slow, with no clear reward in the end. Listening to the fascinating tales of Neal's adventures, Mozzie had often wondered whether he was missing something. Although he was four years older than Neal, sometimes, he felt terribly inexperienced next to his friend. Neal had seen places and talked to more people in a week than Mozzie did in a month. But the last few days had made Moz understand about all the sacrifices that Neal had made with his life-choices.

"Is it worth it?" he asked.

It was a testimony to how well they knew each other that Neal understood the question. "Sometimes. Some days more than the others." His next smile was both smug and mischievous. "Moments like holding the Starry Night in my own hands or walking off with the money of some pompous oil baron generally make for the highlights." Since the big row that had occurred between them some ten years ago when Mozzie had first recognized the sketch of Neal's face in the newspapers, Neal had never tried to downplay his criminal activities to his friend.

"And "consulting security"? How did that work out?"

"Better than I expected, actually," replied Neal thoughtfully. "I didn't think it would last, but… it turned out to be quite satisfying. I might have even stuck with it."

"'Might have'?" asked Mozzie.

Neal grimaced. "When Nicolas Herbert hired me, he – quote – "didn't trust me as far as he could throw me, and that was being generous". I didn't exactly give them a notice when I left, so… Maybe my work for the company was getting too boring anyway."

Mozzie stilled. "Wait, you're telling me that… I got you fired."

"What? No, of course you didn't. Don't be so dramatic," said Neal dismissively with a smile. "More wine?"

"I'm not being _dramatic_, I…" Mozzie hesitated.

He wondered whether Neal regretted his choice to help him. His earlier question echoed in his mind – did Neal think that this was worth it?

"You were finally getting the life that you wanted," he said at last. "I made things – complicated."

"As if I've never done that to you before," replied Neal lightly. "Do you really want me to recall all those times at high school?"

"It's not the same!"

"Of course it's not," agreed Neal gravely. "You have the freaking _**CIA**_ after you, Moz! Did you really think that _anything_ would be more important to me than making sure that you're all right?"

Silence.

"No," said Mozzie at last. "I knew I could count on you. I was being stupid."

"You should hold on to that thought." Neal shook his head. "Don't do it again."

Mozzie poured them both more wine.

"So, what else is new with you?" asked Neal after a while, seemingly back at ease. "Any girls?"

"What does it matter if I have to leave her behind?" replied Mozzie bitterly.

There was a pause.

"It matters," said Neal softly at last. "Even if you leave, your past is still a part of you. You and Ellen taught me that."

Mozzie shook his head. "It seemed simpler back then. When you told me about your father and that you had to leave – I didn't want to lose my friend." He paused. "Neal… tell me the truth. If I go through with this…"

"You'll have to cut all ties. Your dad, your cousins, Mr. Jeffries... Your friends. Your job. Your girl. Me. This country."

_You'll lose everything._

It was like someone hit Mozzie with a sledgehammer. He had known of course, but he hadn't… _known_.

Mozzie stumbled up, almost knocking over his chair. "I need some air."

"I'll check the outside," said Neal – but Mozzie was already grabbing his jacket and fumbling with the buttons as he made it out of the door into the dark alley. He couldn't care less at the moment if it was dangerous or if he might be seen.

Mozzie leaned against the wall of the warehouse, staring at the starless sky. A moment later, Neal joined him in complete silence.

They stood like that for several minutes before Mozzie spoke up. "What if I took precautions. I could be really careful. I could – "

"They'll be watching everyone you hold dear. Even after you're supposedly dead, they won't stop. They're smart; they know all the usual weaknesses of their fugitives. If you do this – they won't be safe. No contact, Moz." The harshness of Neal's voice was tempered by the way he squeezed Mozzie's hand in compassion.

Mozzie's throat became incredibly thin. "You kept contact with Ellen," he said accusingly.

"A brief phone call or a card maybe every two months… it's still a risk to her," replied Neal. "It's been two decades and the Marshals are protecting her. … I know I'll never forgive myself if one day it's not enough."

Mozzie shook his head. "Neal, I can't… I need to be sure that they're safe. My _family_… I need to know that…"

"I'll try to think of something," said Neal at last. "But I'm making no promises –"

Mozzie grabbed him into a bear hug. "Thanks," he whispered roughly.

He was dimly aware that Neal was patting his back when he quietly suggested they head back inside. Wiping away the wetness from his eyes, Mozzie followed him into the warehouse.

The slam of the iron door was the sound of his past being smashed into pieces.

o - o - o

"Wow. You're a fast learner," said Neal in surprise when Mozzie made a victorious "yes!" and tossed him the opened padlock.

Mozzie's smile fell a bit. "Well, I'm not _really_ new to this. I might have lived on the streets for only a few weeks before Mr. Jeffries brought me back, but it's still not the sort of stuff that you forget easily. And even forgetting that, living at the orphanage could get a bit rough sometimes. I learned to pick locks before I turned ten. … I thought I would be more rusty though."

"Well, great job. Listen, I have to go. You have my number – any sign of trouble, call me. I'll be back in two hours, okay?"

"Sure," agreed Mozzie.

Neal flipped on his hat and smiled. "Great. See you later then."

They had left the storage unit when Neal had finally been satisfied with their aliases. (And it had been high time – Mozzie's sinuses truly hated the dust there). The hotel where they were staying at the moment was a much nicer and cleaner place – not to mention that it had TV, a shower and most importantly, wi-fi access. In five days, they were about to reach Phoenix. Then goodbye, Paul Handerson, and goodbye Mozzie, because even his childhood nickname could supposedly give him away. Enter… whatever name the identity doctor will have prepared for him.

_He wasn't prepared for this._

Neal was making plans for their move, thinking of the best way to keep them off-radar. And once again, Mozzie was left alone, feeling useless.

He wasn't made for sitting around and doing nothing. After reading the newspaper, doing the crossword, watching news and reading the newspaper _again_, Mozzie had been ready to crawl up the walls. In the end, Neal had suggested that – in light of Mozzie's relative success with his own faked IDs (which, as Neal had said, was a decent first-attempt – "if you were underage, you a might have been able to use this to buy some alcohol") – he could continue his "education" as starting criminal mastermind. In the virtual book of "Criminal Skills 101", that apparently meant lock-picking.

And so Neal had left him to play around with his own set of lockpicks and some locks that he found who-knows-where while he left for the streets to arrange things for the next step of their journey.

Which left Mozzie at the hotel to his own devices.

Moz was aware that Neal wouldn't have liked what he was thinking about. What he was about to do was risky, but… he needed to know. And deep down, his friend would probably understand.

o - o - o

After he had left Mozzie at the hotel to play with his lockpicks, Neal had headed for the streets. He picked a few pockets and then when the cold started to seep through his cloak, he stopped at a local restaurant for an espresso. That was the one advantage of not being an official fugitive – as long as there weren't cameras, he could pick any restaurant he liked, without worrying about being recognized and the cavalry being called. While the CIA was undoubtedly looking for him to get to Moz, they didn't have any pretext to put his photo and his Wanted posters all over the United States.

When the waitress arrived with his coffee, Neal thanked her with a charming smile. He took a sip of the hot liquid, his hands immediately becoming warmer just from touching the cup. Within a few minutes, he felt much better and focused. Now, without Mozzie's presence distracting him, it was time to plan and think.

Their resources were almost depleted.

Neal had had some cash and a couple of ATM cards stored at the "yellow safehouse" where he had met with Mozzie. However, living on the run was expensive, and they would need additional funds to buy Mozzie's new identity, not to mention give him a decent start in whatever country he eventually chose. Which meant either accessing one of their usual accounts (not an option, since it could be traced), pulling a heist (too risky and way too flashy) or accessing one of Neal's stashes. Neal had avoided the last option for as long as possible, not sure which of his places the FBI might possibly know about and could therefore be in their files and watched, but now it seemed that necessity was forcing his hand.

Very well then – they would make a stop at Nashville. It was almost on their way anyway.

Standing up, Neal paid for his coffee, leaving a decent tip. Then he walked out of the restaurant and easily became part of the crowd, one anonymous person lost in the sea of bodies.

Or at least, that is what should have happened.

A less-skilled person might not have noticed. However, there was a reason why Neal was regarded as one of the best thieves on the planet. His senses were screaming at him that someone was following him.

As soon as he found opportunity, he turned a corner, took off his hat and quickly crossed the street, where he pretended to stare at something in a storefront. In fact, he was staring at the reflection in the shop window, trying to spot the person who had been following him.

There!

A man in a long coat, with dark eyes and sharp face stopped at the crossroad with a hint of indecision. One glance at the alley, and then his attention turned to Neal in front of the shop window.

Not good.

Neal was pretty sure that the man had been in the restaurant. That, together with how easily he saw through his ruse spoke of a professional. Neal wasn't sure whether he was CIA or someone else from the law enforcement alphabet soup, but it didn't matter. He was bad news – and he was heading his way.

"Neal Caffrey –" called the men and reached into his coat.

Neal didn't wait for anything else and bolted back into the main street.

And ran.

o - o - o

Using Neal's laptop, Mozzie had connected to the hotel's wi-fi network. At first, he just checked some of his favorite websites, careful in case that Neal might have forgotten something at the hotel room and return to retrieve it. Finally, he decided that he had waited long enough and made his move.

He opened the yahoo website, typed in "moz3260" and then the password.

His private email account opened before him. He ignored the spams and moved to the important things.

There was a short message from Mr. Jeffries, dated ten days back, asking how he was doing and thanking Moz for his latest donation. Another email from Mr. Jeffries, telling him that Mozzie's father had contacted him about Mozzie's whereabouts. And finally…

The first message was nine days old.

_Hello Paul,_

_Where are you? Are you all right? Your colleagues called me that you didn't come to work in two days and that they can't get a hold of you. I tried to call you, but the line was dead. What is going on?_

_Your mom always told me how I worry too much… I know you can take care of yourself, and this is probably just a misunderstanding. I'm sure this is just old man's anxiety, but you know how I have a bad feeling when I don't know what's going on. Please call me that you're okay. _

_Love,_

_Dad_

The second message was from seven days ago.

_Paul – _

_What is going on? Please tell me you're all right. I'm worried sick here. _

_Some people came to my house tonight. They said they were police and showed me a picture of you and Danny Brooks. They said you were in trouble and that they needed to find you, but they wouldn't tell me anything else. _

_Something about them didn't feel right, so I got rid of them as fast as I could… Did I make a mistake? What if something bad happened to you? Am I wasting precious time?_

_Whatever it is, we can handle it together. If it's something with the police, I know a good lawyer who can help. Or if you can't, then at least let me know you're okay. Please, Paul, just call me._

_Love,_

_Dad_

Mozzie's eyes began to water. He skimmed through the rest of the emails.

_Paul – _

_**Where are you? **__They called me from your work again… _

_Paul, someone's been following me…_

_Paul, if you're reading this, PLEASE reply to me…_

_The police came back again. I think they bugged the house… _

_I know you're probably not reading this, but I can't stop in case you are. I don't know what's going on anymore. I just hope you're safe…_

And all of the emails concluded with the familiar words: _Love, Dad._

Mozzie stared at the blurred screen in a mixture of anguish and rage, barely able to make out the final lines of the last message. Finally, he wiped away the tears, stood up and took a ragged breath. But his rage didn't diminish.

The rational corner of his mind told him that here he had the proof that this thing was real. The rest of him –

_**How dare they! How DARE they target his family!**_

Forgetting all caution, Mozzie took out the burner phone and dialed the familiar number that he could recall even in his sleep.

Twice, the phone rang empty. With the third ring, someone finally picked up.

"_Who is this?" _asked the familiar voice, shaded with incredible tiredness.

Mozzie swallowed. "Hey Dad…"

"_PAUL?! My boy, is that really you?"_

"Dad, I…"

"_Thank God! I was so scared! What happened? Where are you?"_

The tears now flew freely. "Dad, something happened… I have to leave. I'll … it'll be fine, I swear. I…"

"_Paul? Son, you're scaring me. Tell me what's wrong."_

Mozzie closed his eyes as the cell phone trembled in his hand. The memories flew through his mind…

Being an awkward, distrustful thirteen-years old kid when he first walked into the Handersons' house. Then… setting up his own room… settling in… spending time together… all their holidays, the feeling when he'd been adopted… finally learning to call them mom and dad… and how proud his parents were at his commencement ceremony.

Mozzie opened his eyes – and stilled. He took a quick step closer to the window. For a moment, he thought that he had spotted … Was his mind playing tricks on him?

"_Paul?"_

"I have to go," said Mozzie, his throat suddenly impossibly dry. "Thanks for everything. I love you."

"_**PAUL –"**_

– but he had already hung up.

Putting the cell phone aside, Mozzie leaned closer to the window and looked down the street. He didn't see anything suspicious, but his senses were already on high alert.

As he was about to call Neal, his cell phone rang on his own.

"Neal –"

"_We have a problem,"_ an out of breath answer came from the other way.

"Oh, you're a psychic," exclaimed Mozzie humorlessly before he paused. "Are you running?"

"_What? Never mind. The FBI has put out a warrant for me –"_

"Oh. That's not good."

"_Really, Moz? I wouldn't have guessed! Listen –"_

"There might be another problem," interrupted him Mozzie flatly.

The panting on the other side slowed down. _"What is it?"_

Staring out of the window, Mozzie swallowed.

"The CIA is here. I think they just found us."

"_Shit!"_

Well, that was encouraging.

"_Are you okay? Where are you?"_ asked Neal a moment later.

"In the hotel room. I spotted some of the people who came to my apartment outside the hotel."

"_Did they see you?"_

"I don't know."

"_Okay. Go and lock the main door."_

"What? Neal, I don't think that's gonna be –"

"_Just do it, Moz!"_

Mozzie swallowed. "Okay."

He locked the door. "What next?"

"_Put something heavy behind them… the armchair should be good enough."_

"That's not –"

"_Do you trust me, Moz?"_

Mozzie took a shaky breath. "You know I do."

"_Then trust me with this, okay? It's gonna be fine, I promise."_

"Okay."

Breathing heavily, Mozzie finally managed to push the old solid armchair behind the door. "You know, some explanation would be good here. I don't think the CIA are going to tire out by just waiting behind the closed door. Neal, how the hell will I get out?"

"_Don't worry, you'll be taking a different way. Now, open the window and push away the things from around the inner frame. When you're done, go to our beds and pull off the bed-sheets."_

Mozzie did a double-take. "_Excuse_ me? Neal, I'm not climbing out of the window!"

"_No you're not."_

"Then what –"

Neal smiled. _"But the CIA will think that you are."_

o - o - o

The cupboard in the bathroom looked completely innocent.

His tongue sticking out and cold sweat running down his back, Mozzie hurriedly used the butter knife to unscrew the last small bolt – and prayed that Neal had been correct in his assumption. If the cupboard didn't go all the way through the wall as Neal had said, then he might still be left to tying up a makeshift rope from the bedsheets that were now stuck in one of the wardrobes and attempting an escape through the window. Mozzie's vivid imagination immediately created a perfect image of him splattered all over the hard concrete outside – no thanks.

He peeled away the paste board and revealed a dark hole behind it.

"Oh."

After quickly climbing through, Mozzie randomly rearranged the toothbrushes and dentifrice from the other side. Then he closed the cupboard door and put back the pasteboard as well as he could. He was almost done when he heard a noise coming from the apartment. He froze.

Thud.

Thud!

THUD!

Something broke.

For a few seconds, Mozzie just stood there and listened to the sounds of someone breaking inside. Then his brain finally caught up.

'_Run, you fools!'_

Neal would have liked the classics, thought Moz.

He looked down the darkened hall. He had no idea where it led, except that it was away from the CIA agents who had just made it into his apartment.

Mozzie ran.


	3. Part III

_A/N: Thanks everyone for their review for the previous chapters. Please, enjoy!_

* * *

**PART III**

Rubbing his forehead, Peter took another look at the papers scattered on the kitchen table. "This doesn't make any sense."

"Honey? What's wrong?"

Stifling a yawn, Peter leaned back fully into Elizabeth's touch and for a moment simply enjoyed her hands rubbing his shoulders. "Hey hon."

Giving him a quick peck on the cheek, Elizabeth sat down on the chair next to him. "You're up late again," she said with a hint of gentle rebuke.

"Yeah, I know. It's just…" Peter sighed. "It's this case. I'm _trying_ to make a sense of it, but – it doesn't hold up together. There's something I'm missing."

El looked over his shoulder. It was only thanks to the fact that he knew her so well that Peter noticed her stiffen. "Neal Caffrey. I see."

"El –"

"Peter, you made me a promise."

Peter closed his eyes and then opened them again. "I know. I'm sorry. I'll just –"

"Is there a dead body?" asked El firmly.

"No."

"Has anybody been kidnapped?"

"No," answered Peter truthfully.

"Then leave it. It's almost past eleven. Let's go to bed."

Peter looked at his wife. Finally, his smile became less strained and his expression cleared. "You're right. I'll put these away –"

"Bed. Now."

Peter cast one last tense look at his files. Then, almost despite himself, he chuckled. "All right, you win."

"Smart man," murmured El and she pressed her hot lips against his neck.

El was right. There were other things to… explore.

The case could wait until tomorrow.

o - o - o

The next morning, Peter was in an unusually good mood, despite not expecting any new progress on learning Caffrey's whereabouts. That was why he was genuinely surprised when Diana came to his office just an hour before noon.

"Peter. There is something you need to see."

"What…?"

"It's about Caffrey."

Peter sprang up to his feet.

"Jones's CI from the Finnegan case contacted him this morning," explained Diana on their way to the conference room. "It seems that he has some information about Neal's associate."

Peter almost skipped a step. "What?" he asked when he found his balance again. "Neal doesn't have any associates."

Diana grimaced. "Apparently, he does now." She opened the door to the conference room and stepped inside. Wordlessly, Peter followed. Jones was already there, standing by the table, surrounded by six or seven piles of files arranged in not so neat columns.

"Hey Peter," Jones lifted his head as he heard the newcomers.

"Jones." Peter looked around over the mess. "What is all this?"

Jones shook his head. "It's weird. There's never been a word of Caffrey having a partner. I skimmed through maybe a third of these to check –"

"And? Did you find anything?" Despite his initial skepticism, Peter was now becoming intrigued.

"Nada. There's _nothing_ that would point to him having a long term associate. But you're the ultimate Caffrey expert, you would know."

"Not necessarily," murmured Peter thoughtfully.

He more felt than saw Jones and Diana exchanging a look, but his attention was already fully focused on the files in front of him – at least by appearance. In fact, Peter's mind was running fast, mulling over possibilities and explanations.

"It's more than possible that this is a new development," he said aloud while trying to remember all the old cases involving Neal.

A partner. Was that it? His gut had been telling that something about the chase had changed. Although it had only been two weeks since the break-in at MoMA, Peter would have still expected a message from Neal by now. A note in his mail box. A mysterious delivery. Hell, maybe even a limerick appearing at his desk.

Finding a partner would certainly explain why the ever-present taunting had suddenly stopped.

The development could potentially be worrisome. Neal had always been non-violent and – despite his numerous crimes – had maintained a certain level of morals. However, there was no guarantee that the (rumored) new partner had the same code of honor… in which case, things could get ugly.

Peter cleared his throat. "All right. Jones, what did they tell you about this associate?"

"Not much yet. You know that we have spread the word between our CIs, asking if anyone had any information. When Wilson contacted me this morning, he wanted to meet in person. I'm meeting him at our usual café this afternoon. Thought you might want to come."

"You bet I want to come."

Jones smiled. "I thought you might say that."

They briefly discussed the details of the meeting and reviewed some information about Neal's first crime spree. Then they split and went back to other cases.

o - o - o

The meeting with Damien Wilson didn't start out too well.

The CI was apparently rattled at meeting with two FBI agents in contrast to meeting simply with Jones, despite the fact that he had agreed to it beforehand. However, in the end he calmed down, and when he brought up the subject of Caffrey himself, Peter knew that they were finally getting somewhere.

"I live in Manhattan," Wilson had said. "Sometimes, I go to the same park as Caffrey. I haven't seen him there lately. However, the last two months before that, he's repeatedly met there with another guy."

"Was there anything unusual about him?" asked Peter.

"No, not really…"

"What did he look like?" inquired Jones.

Wilson appeared to be in thought. "He was a short guy… a bit chubby," he said at last. "Maybe a bit older than Caffrey… not as well-dressed as him, though. I think he wore glasses. Caffrey kept calling him "Mozzie"."

"Mozzie?" asked Peter incredulously.

"That's it."

Peter and Jones exchanged a look.

"Meeting with someone in the park isn't a crime," said Peter slowly. "Why do you think that this "Mozzie" is Caffrey's new partner?"

"Well, I've never seen that guy there except when he was with Caffrey… I suppose I can't be sure though. It wasn't like I cared that much about them."

"So you don't actually know anything," stated Jones flatly.

Peter shot him a warning glance, although he could barely hide his disappointment himself. Most likely, this was another dead end. However, it was possible that the CI still had some knowledge that would be relevant to the case. It wouldn't do to shut him up by questioning his information.

"We've never heard of this "Mozzie" before," said Peter carefully. "Do you know what he does for a living or where we could find him?"

"Sorry," said Wilson with a shrug. "For what I know, he could be a high-school teacher, or he could be a fence or a forger. I do know that he seemed pretty chummy with Caffrey, so when you put the word out that you were looking for information, I thought that it might be interesting. I'm sorry if I wasted your time."

Peter fought the urge to sigh in frustration. "It's all right. We appreciate it."

"I'm sorry," repeated Wilson. He made a pause. "If it helps, I remember that three weeks ago, I overheard them talking about San Francisco. But I suppose that doesn't mean anything, does it?"

Silence.

_San Francisco_. The city where Neal had robbed MoMA. Suddenly, Wilson's intelligence began to look much more relevant.

"Do you remember what they talked about?" asked Jones.

"Could you sit down with our sketch artist?" said Peter at the same moment.

Their eyes met again, but this time, there was a sense of grim satisfaction.

They would question Wilson, find out everything he knew. And then they would check out Caffrey's partner.

If this was truly a good lead, then they'd just gotten much closer to catching Neal.

Peter couldn't wait to check it out.

o - o - o

With furrowed brow, Peter stared at the mere two sheets of paper that came out of the printer.

**Name: Unknown**

**Surname: Unknown**

**Nicknames/ Aliases: 'MOZZIE', possibly also known as 'Haversham'**

**Date of Birth: Unknown, estimated age 30-40**

**Place of Birth: Unknown**

**Level of Education: Unknown**

**Nationality: Unknown (suspected American)**

**Address: Unknown**

**Occupation: Unknown**

Peter skimmed through the form, skipping many cells that were empty or filled with the unhelpful "Unknown". Finally he found a bit of information:

**Criminal Activity:**

**Implicated in several cases of petty theft, suspected of larceny, forgery and selling stolen property. Suspect's involvement in the Emerson heist (case n. 45798/2006) has never been confirmed.**

The only other thing in the file that was of any value was a photograph of the suspect.

Going through the file once again without discovering anything new, Peter sighed in frustration. This was not what he had hoped to find. The information in the file – if it could even be called that – was so sparse that it was practically worthless.

Following the case number, Peter pulled the file on the Emerson heist, which had occurred six years ago in a small town in Ohio. However, as soon as he read through it, he was disappointed again. The case was so low-profile that he doubted the agent in charge even remembered it anymore. He wrote her an email just in case, but he doubted that anything would come out of it.

Which left him with a photo, some hearsay from a CI and a few "suspected" and "maybes".

Peter stared at the picture of "Mozzie – Haversham".

As Wilson had said, Mozzie was a bit on the chubby side – at least as far as he could tell from the photo, which certainly wasn't of the best quality. He was bald and he wore huge glasses. He didn't seem truly dangerous – and the file didn't indicate any violence – but Peter knew well enough that appearances could be deceiving.

The best case scenario was that the man was just another con man or a fence. Still, it bothered Peter that he didn't know where this guy came from. Once again, he was forced to acknowledge that for all the things he knew about "Neal Caffrey", he knew next to nothing about his past.

Still, the information wasn't completely useless. At least now they knew that Caffrey might be traveling with someone else. Of course, that also meant that Neal's crime potential might have just grown to an unknown level.

He needed to talk to June Ellington again – and to that fence, Hale. Also, he needed to check with Nicolas Herbert, Neal's previous employer with the security company. Peter grimaced. June was an elegant, graceful lady who masterfully avoided giving him any answers and somehow always worded her replies in such a way that he couldn't accuse her of being purposefully unhelpful. Hale had flat out told him that he hadn't been in contact with Neal for the last two years; although Peter knew for a fact that it was a lie, he couldn't disprove it. And Mr. Herbert was annoyed and embarrassed about everything "Caffrey", so getting an answer from him was worse than pulling teeth.

Nothing like new challenges, thought Peter and began to make plans for the rest of his day.

o - o - o

"The day has come! I am finally going to see one of your crime lairs," stated Mozzie sarcastically.

"It's not a crime-lair, it's a storage unit," replied Neal dryly. "And this isn't a tour. We're just here to pick up some stuff and then we're gone."

He hoped that the FBI didn't know about this place. Although he had checked it out before he dared to approach the place, there was always a certain possibility that he might have missed something. If getting caught had taught him anything, it was that the other ten thousand times didn't matter – what counted was the one time when he made a mistake. Neal wasn't going to let that happen again.

Apparently, Mozzie had noticed some of his mood, because his sarcasm had evaporated and was replaced by grim determination. _Good. _They really couldn't afford another fiasco like their narrow escape from the hotel three days ago…

_Evading the mysterious man who knew his name had been much harder than Neal would have expected. In the end, he lost him, but not before doubling back twice, taking several unexpected turns, disappearing into a shopping center, changing clothes and finally slipping out through a back door in a nearby pet shop. At that point, Neal's suspicion that he was dealing with a professional had turned into dead certainty._

_When he was absolutely sure that he had shaken off his pursuer, he took a moment to catch his breath and think. How the hell did they keep finding him? Neal shook his head and started walking as fast as possible without attracting attention. However it happened, it was clear that his and Mozzie's presence in the town was no longer a secret. Once again they had to move, and fast._

_He moved to dial Moz before he paused. Unless they discovered how the CIA kept finding them, no place would be safe for them – but he still had no idea where he had made a mistake. On an impulse, he lifted a random phone – and dialed one of the few people he knew he could trust._

_Hale's first words were a bit put out at having to burn the number._

_His second were relief and joy at hearing from Neal again._

_His third were: "Hey kid, if you want to fence that Mondrian, you know that I'll give you the best percentage."_

"_What Mondrian?" Neal had asked._

_Then Hale explained, and finally it all clicked._

_A painting had been stolen from MoMA in San Francisco, and for some reason, everyone believed that Neal was behind it._

"_A bit sloppy from what I've heard, but who am I to criticize," said Hale good-naturedly. "I thought you were out of business though. I have to say, I'm bit hurt that I had to learn it from the rumor grapevine. Why didn't tell me you've changed your mind?"_

"_I didn't steal any Mondrian," said Neal in dismay._

_Hale immediately turned serious. "The FBI thinks you did. You know that they put a warrant out for you."_

_Neal froze. _

"_Hale… When did it happen? The robbery," he added to clarify. "When did it happen?"_

"_Ten days ago, but why –"_

"_I'll call later," interrupted him Neal. "Thanks, Hale."_

"_Anytime, son."_

_Almost on autopilot, Neal dumped the stolen phone into the nearest trash can._

_They had framed him. Somehow, the CIA had framed him and put the FBI on his back._

Damn!

_He pulled out his own cell and dialed Mozzie's number while he started to run towards the hotel. Finally, Moz picked up._

"_The CIA is here," he said. "I think they just found us."_

"_Shit!"_

'_Too late,' thought Neal with dread – until Mozzie asked him to guide him through his getaway._

_They reunited at the hotel's backyard, filled with garbage containers and other trash. Following Neal's instructions, Moz came stumbling down the fire escape, breathing heavily. Noticing Neal, Mozzie halted, his eyes widening in fear… until comprehension and relief set in instead. _

"_The diversion… worked, I think," he panted, almost falling down as he lost his step on the last few stairs. Neal caught him and gave Mozzie's trembling arm a quick small squeeze, but they had no time to waste._

"_We need to get out of here," he said crisply._

"_Our things…"_

"_Forget them." The material value didn't matter. The possibility that the CIA might find some clues in their room was worrisome, but they couldn't do anything about that. "That alley there. Follow me."_

_They sprinted maybe sixty yards across the street._

"_Stop," half-called Neal, trying to stay inconspicuous while attracting Mozzie's attention. He pointed to a narrow gap between the houses, barely three feet wide. Out of breath, Mozzie just wordlessly nodded and then went through as Neal pushed him to go first. Just as Neal followed him inside, he saw the door to the fire escape to open again and a group of four suited men came out._

_Their leader was a tall man with dirty blond hair. He calmly ran his gaze over the space outside before suddenly locking his eyes with Neal. The icy blue orbs spoke of ruthlessness, determination and deep intelligence. Given how fast he got there, the man must have seen through Neal's diversion with the window in less than a minute. Neal felt a shiver run down his spine as a realization struck him that he had just met his equal._

_Unlike in action movies, the agent didn't bother with an evil smile, and without any delays pointed his team in Neal and Mozzie's direction. His efficiency woke up Neal as well and he quickly followed Moz down the narrow path._

_He knew they would get away this time. He had done his job and made sure to memorize all their escape paths so that he could recite them in his sleep. Thanks to the long stairs and the distance, they had maybe ninety seconds of a head start – and that was enough to make an escape. _

_Next time though…_

_Next time they might not be so lucky._

But that was three days ago. Neal shook his head to chase away the memory and focused on the presence. He picked the lock to the storage unit, careful not to leave any prints. Putting on his ever-present white gloves, he opened the door. When there were no sirens nor flashlights, he nodded at Mozzie that it was safe to follow him inside.

"Why are we doing this in the middle of the day again?" asked Moz.

"Because during the day, we're just two men taking something out of their storage unit. At night, we become suspicious. Now come. And don't touch the doorknob or the stuff inside," said Neal as an afterthought. If the FBI somehow found this place or got a warrant, the last thing he wanted were Mozzie's prints near the stolen paintings and other art.

When Neal closed the door behind them, they became surrounded by complete dark. Then Neal turned on the switch.

Mozzie stilled. "_Wow_. Oh. … Interesting."

The room was small, more like a closet than anything else. It held six paintings and several boxes.

Neal grinned boyishly at Mozzie's spontaneous words. "You like what you see?"

Mozzie hesitated. "_'The aim of life is appreciation'_," he spoke at last. "_'There is no sense in not appreciating things; and there is no sense in more of them if you have less appreciation for them.'_ "

A pause.

"Okay, I have no idea what that meant," said Neal.

"It means… I don't know what to say, Neal."

_Was that good or bad?_

"All right," replied Neal with a carefree smile. "Well, give me just a moment –"

"You could have at least warned me. I didn't expect to come here and find the frigging "Girl with a Pearl Earring" leaning against the wall!"

Ah, so _that's_ what this was about. "Okay, that one's actually a forgery."

"A con that didn't work out?" asked Mozzie.

Neal smiled. "No, no plans like that… I guess you could say that one was just for fun. And it's not really good anyway. The brushwork's off, and I didn't have the right light, so the blue is a shade too light… it was one of my firsts," he explained. "Still, it has a certain… sentimental value."

"I see." Mozzie paused. "It's like me keeping those old photos of the bacteria from my first year at the Institute."

"You mean those three violet blotches that you keep showing every poor soul who visits your place?" asked Neal teasingly.

"Whoa, _you're_ the one to talk, Mr. "I-robbed-a-Guggenheim-to-impress-a-girl" – who, if I remember well, then took off with both the painting _and_ her old girlfriend."

Neal groaned. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

Mozzie smiled. "Maybe… eventually… _If_ you stop insulting my photo."

"Great. Fantastic. _Why_ did I even tell you about that one?"

"I don't know… Oh, I got it – because you couldn't resist my great 'natural charm'?"

"Yeah, right. Try again."

Mozzie turned more serious. "Okay. It probably had something to do with bottled up emotions, sharing our old woes…"

"Speaking of bottles, don't forget the whiskey."

"I would never forget the whiskey. You know, now that I remember, that evening was really –"

"Creepy? Mushy?"

"_Touching,"_ corrected him Moz sharply. "And emotional. It was a moment of sharing between friends. You don't get to slight that, Neal. "

Clearing his throat, Neal awkwardly patted Mozzie's arm. "Right. Now let's get to business."

Checking the boxes, he confirmed that they haven't been tampered with, then he rearranged them until he finally got to the one at the bottom. Crouching down and opening the box, he revealed a small leather bag full of cash and a purse that held a small stack of ATM cards.

"Sweet fancy Moses."

"It's about a hundred K in cash, plus maybe half of that on the cards," replied Neal to Mozzie's strangled exclamation. Then he zipped the bag back closed, rearranged the boxes back into their place and stood up. "Looks like we just got the resources for our trip to Phoenix. Let's go."

They locked the door again. It was ten minutes to the place where their cab was waiting for them. As they started to walk back, Mozzie was unusually quiet.

"I think we need to get a car," spoke up Neal a moment later. "At this point, I don't trust the airports, and even buses or trains might be risky. As much as it pains me, the highway is probably our best bet. Which means that I'll need your help."

Silence.

"Is 'get' a car a euphemism for 'borrow without asking'?" inquired Mozzie at last. "Because I don't think I'm quite that far yet in the Stealing 101 course."

Neal half-grinned. "Interesting question, but no, not this time. If we drove a car that someone recognized stolen, it could raise flags, so we're going to buy one – something old from a private owner."

"And you think that I look more like the type who'd buy a used car."

"Precisely."

Mozzie frowned. "For the record, I'll have you know that I had a perfectly good new Nissan Cube. With special alterations!"

"I'm sure it was beautiful," replied Neal in a perfectly neutral tone.

"It wasn't just _beautiful_. It was – a work of art."

A pause.

"Neal, I think we need to talk," said Mozzie suddenly.

"Talk? About what?"

Mozzie sighed. "About going to Phoenix."

o - o - o

Half an hour later, they were back at their current hideout. They sat around the table when Mozzie started to explain.

"The last time they found us wasn't an accident. I – Neal, I called my Dad."

Silence.

"You – called your Dad."

"Yes I did. I called him from our hotel room."

"You _called _your Dad. You called him from the hotel. … _**Jesus, Moz! **_"

Mozzie took in a deep breath. "Look Neal, I'm sorry that –"

"No you're not."

"You didn't even let me finish."

"And what were you gonna say, Moz? That you're sorry for calling your Dad and getting us exposed? But you're not, not really." Neal shook his head in dismay and frustratedly ran his hands through his hair before he sighed. "I get it. I might have done the same in your place."

Mozzie gave him a feeble smile. "Even if it's _'dangerous, and foolish and risky'_ –"

"He's your family. I know how much he means to you."

Mozzie swallowed. "Thanks, Neal."

There was a pause.

"You do understand that you can never do it again."

Another pause.

"No. I'm sorry Neal, but I can't accept that."

"You have to," said Neal. "You have to leave him behind, or you won't be safe – _neither_ of you will be safe. **You can't contact him again.**"

Mozzie took a deep breath. It was time he told Neal about the conclusion that he had reached.

"I'm not going to go to hiding, Neal."

"What –"

"I'm not going to disappear. I'm not going to fake my death. I'm not going to take a new identity, and I'm not going to hide for the rest of my life. Not – not without at least trying to get it all back."

This was the first time in years that Mozzie had seen Neal completely speechless.

"You're thinking of exposing them," said Neal at last.

"Yes."

Immediately, Neal shook his head. "That's not gonna work, Moz. Even _**if**_ we found out what exactly the CIA is doing –_if_ we could get proof and _**if**_ we could get it out to the world – they're not gonna stop. If you expose them, they'll come after you, then your friends, your family – you'll make it worse."

"Neal –"

"Think! Think, Moz – look into the past and tell me I'm wrong."

Mozzie shook his head. Neal was right about his family – but that wasn't the only reason why he'd come to this conclusion. "They're using my research."

"You can't be sure –"

"Oh for God's sake, Neal!" exploded Moz. "I know what I was working on, and I know what I saw in that lab."

"You didn't sound so sure about that before," replied Neal sharply. "Interesting how you've changed your mind."

The words felt like a punch in the gut.

"You – you said you believed me."

"Moz –"

Surprised by the sudden tears in his eyes, Moz took a step back. "You said you trusted me. _I am not making this up, Neal._"

Neal released a weary sigh. "That's not – look –"

"Torture. Indoctrination. Using _**my research**_." Mozzie's throat was impossibly dry, but his next words were very clear. "I'm not going to stand back and watch that happen."

"You're a scientist, not an ethical board!" Neal shook his head. "This isn't your fault, Moz. And I'm not gonna let you do this."

"'_The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it.'_"

"Well if Einstein's so wise, ask him to rise from the grave and take on the CIA himself."

"_My research_, Neal." Suddenly tired, Mozzie took off his glasses and placed them on the table. "I have to fix this."

"You can't do this."

"I have to try."

"Moz –"

"Listen, you already did a lot for me," said Mozzie. "And I know that… that you didn't sign up for this. You made all these plans to help me, and I just screwed them up. … I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier what I was thinking about. And I'm not asking you to do this with me. … I mean it. This is my responsibility, not yours. I already caused enough problems for you."

Silence.

Finally, Neal sighed. "I shouldn't have said what I said earlier. I just – I don't want to see you get yourself killed or locked up for sixty years for espionage."

_Espionagei/_. Right.

_Well, how else would you call breaking into a CIA facility?_

Mozzie swallowed. "Ah, that… doesn't sound like fun."

"Well I wasn't joking."

"Neither was I. But I still have to do it." When Neal started to talk again, Mozzie cut him off. "I get it, it's a bad idea. … But tell me this. If innocent people were going to get hurt because of you, might die because of you – would you be able to live with yourself if you knew and didn't try to stop it?"

Silence.

"This is going to end really badly," stated Neal flatly.

Mozzie sighed. "Yes, that's a possibility."

"It's a stupid move. You know it's not gonna work out."

"I know."

_So…_

Neal ran both of his hands over his face before he stood up. "You're really sure about this?"

"I am."

"Okay. Then I'm with you."

_**Yes! **_

For a second, Mozzie wanted to whoop and do a victory dance. But the utterly grave expression on Neal's face tampered down all of that feeling.

He patted Neal's arm. "Thanks, man. … I'll get us some wine."

Neal grimaced. "I don't think that's gonna be strong enough."

A moment later, Mozzie returned with a cork-screw, a bottle and two glasses.

"So. What's your plan?" asked Neal after taking a deep gulp from his glass.

Mozzie bit his lip. "I was… hoping that you would help me with that."

Humorlessly, Neal chuckled. "Oh. Great."

Mozzie took a deep breath. "Okay. Obviously, we need to find out what exactly the CIA is up to and get proof. I came across their chemical lab, but the documents I saw indicated that there were other labs with "test subjects". So, we need to find out where they are, get evidence and then… resolve it."

"Sounds like a really great plan."

"Neal, could you please stop being sarcastic?" asked Mozzie in irritation.

Neal took a sip from his glass. "You're right. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"Okay."

For a moment, the two of them just stared at each other.

"So. How are we gonna find their lab?" asked Moz.

There was a moment of silence.

"I know a girl who can help us," said Neal at last. Then he smiled. "We're coming back to New York."


	4. Part IV

**PART IV**

When Neal and Moz came to the meeting point in Central Park, Sally was already there, sitting on a bench and reading a newspaper. When she noticed them, her eyes stilled for a moment on Mozzie. Then she gave them a subtle nod, stood up and left the newspaper abandoned on the bench.

Mozzie was ready to follow her as she walked out, but Neal stopped him: "Wait."

Mozzie raised his eyebrows. "Wasn't that your contact?"

"Yes."

"But… she's – leaving? Why didn't you…" Mozzie paused. "_Oh._ The newspaper. She left you a clue."

Neal smiled. "See? I'll make a criminal out of you yet."

"Oh great," said Mozzie sarcastically. Then he nodded to the abandoned bench. "Well then… my feet are tired. Why don't we sit down for a while?"

He headed to the bench before Neal could stop him. With mild amusement, Neal observed how Moz cast a careful look around before picking up the newspaper. For a moment, it looked like he was not sure what to do with it – he turned it around in his hands and looked down at his clothes, filling Neal's mind with a brief disturbing image of Mozzie trying to hide the paper under his shirt – but then he opened the paper and apparently immediately became engrossed in one of their articles.

Neal sat down next to him. "You know, people generally don't become so interested in an article until they've read a few words."

Mozzie tensed, then he dropped his super-interested face and turned the page around. "Stop trying to distract me."

"Try the crossword section," advised Neal.

Casting another glance around, Mozzie slowly flipped the pages until he finally found the place.

The crossword was filled out.

"Is there a message somewhere?" asked Moz. "Wait, I got it. … She used a pencil to solve it and then she rewrote it in pen… but she intentionally misspelled some words... and wrote the message backwards," he finished a few seconds later. "'One hour, Greenhill Street'. … The Greenhill Street?"

Neal almost gaped at Mozzie's speed. But then Moz had always been good with codes.

He stood up. "I know where she means. Let's go."

o - o - o

Although the address was familiar, Neal wouldn't have found the place had he not been there with Sally once before. However, this way he simply came to the familiar door and rang the bell. A few moments later, a boy in his late twenties opened the door and let them inside.

The place that Sally chose for a meeting was a small club that resembled a mix of a library, tearoom and playroom. There were several wooden desks with chairs that might have been painted by the owner himself a long time ago; then shelves lined with old books and records, stacks of newspapers and magazines, game boards for chess and Parcheesi, decks of cards, boxes with puzzles, and finally posters on the walls that depicted superheroes and spaceships.

The club wasn't private per say, but few people actually knew about it. It was owned by a group of friends, and according to what Sally told Neal, it was often quite full during the evenings. However, right now the place was completely vacated, except for the man who let them inside and Sally. The latter was already sitting behind one of the tables, sipping tea from a big mug and working on a Sudoku.

"Hey," Neal greeted her with a smile as he sat down on the opposite chair. Mozzie took the place next to him.

"You know, I was actually half-hoping that you wouldn't show up," said Sally, still seemingly focused on her Sudoku.

"_Ouch_. How can you say that?"

"You bring trouble even on your best day. At a time like this, the sensible thing would be to stay the hell away."

"Don't tell me you started living the sensible life now," smirked Neal.

"Well since I'm here, that should answer your question." Quickly filling out the last four squares in her grid, Sally turned to Moz. "So you're Neal's friend, the biologist."

Mozzie cleared his throat. "As Cousteau said, I am but a curious man looking through a keyhole of nature."

Sally raised her eyebrows.

Mozzie blushed. "That means yes. Yes, I'm a biologist. Or at least I was before… well, before this whole thing went down."

Sally nodded. "I understand. … I'm Sally."

"Mozzie," he introduced himself by his nickname.

There was a moment of silence.

"I'll get us something to drink," said Neal at last and rose up, going to the next room where the local bartender had his station.

When he returned ten minutes later with two mugs of tea, it seemed that Sally and Moz had engaged in an animated conversation about corruption, corporations and pharmaceutical companies.

"These things are growing like monsters," commented Sally.

"Exactly!" agreed Moz, right before Neal sat down and passed him his cup of tea.

"There you go."

Mozzie mutedly nodded in thanks. Apparently, the conversation had died with Neal's arrival.

"Right." Neal cleared his throat. "Look… I think it's time we talked about why we're here."

Mozzie glanced at him before he looked at Sally in a silent question.

"Fine with me," said Sally.

"Okay," said Mozzie. He took off his glasses and cleared them before turned back to Sally. "Just so we're clear – how much did Neal actually tell you?"

"The "secret group" is after you," said Sally. "You need my skills to get some intelligence about them. What I don't get is why the sudden interest?"

Mozzie stared at the board of the desk. When he looked up, his sight was clouded. "I used to work on a project that was connected to "Them"," he admitted. "Only back then, I didn't actually know that "They" were using the knowledge for – certain wrongdoings. I didn't even know that "They" were involved at all. But then one day, I came across… something, and I discovered what "They" were up to. But then "They" found out that – "

"Enough. Please."

Mozzie and Sally both looked at Neal.

"Sorry Moz, but…" Neal already felt a beginning of a headache. He turned to Sally. "Look, if we talk in codes, we'll still be there by midnight. So tell me, is it safe here to speak openly, or do we need to move elsewhere?"

Mozzie scowled. Sally looked thoughtful, then she bit her lip. "I'll talk to Dave – the man at the bar," she explained. "He's a friend… if I ask him, I think he can lock the place down and give us an hour of privacy. It's not like there are any guests right now."

"Won't he mind?" asked Mozzie at the same moment when Neal said, "Won't he get suspicious?"

"Let me deal with that," said Sally.

Ten minutes later, "Dave" lent his keys to the club to Sally and left. They were alone.

"All right. So what is the deal with the CIA?"

Mozzie and Neal exchanged a look.

"It's kind of a long story…"

o - o - o

"So… you need me to somehow break into the CIA files to find out the location of a specific lab," said Sally some time later.

A pause.

"Yes…" said Mozzie hesitantly.

"That's insane."

Neal grimaced. "More like desperate."

Sally sighed. "Look, I sympathize with your cause. But you don't know the project's name. You don't even know where to _start_."

"A-actually, _that _we might know," Mozzie interceded. "From what I gathered, it looks like the CIA was using my university as one of their research centers. Could you access the data through that link?"

Sally hesitated. "Maybe," she said at last. "It's possible. I can look into it."

"I can tell you about it," blurted Mozzie. He blushed when Sally looked at him. "I mean… I have perfect recall. I can tell you about the university. And the documents I saw. And… whatever you need."

"I don't think –"

"I want to help," interrupted her Mozzie. "I won't get in your way. I can… make you coffee, or whatever – I won't get in the way. But this is my problem. I need to do something."

Neal observed the conversation in silence.

For a moment, Sally and Mozzie stared at each other. Sally seemed to be in the middle of making a decision. At last she nodded. "Very well. But I'll need my equipment. You'll have to go to my place."

_Her place?_

Neal grinned. "Wait, so the only thing I needed to get invited over to your place was to have the CIA after me?"

"_You_ are not invited," replied Sally sweetly. "Just your friend."

"But –"

"I like you, Neal, but I sure as hell don't trust you."

"If something happens –"

"I'll contact you," interrupted him Sally. "But if you want my help, it will be on my terms."

Mozzie glanced at Neal. He liked Sally at first glance, but he didn't know her like Neal did. Was she trustworthy?

Neal seemed to think it over before he turned back to their companion. "All right, as you wish."

Sally smiled and turned to Moz. "Good. Why don't we start right away?"

o - o - o

As he was making dinner in their temporary apartment, Neal let out a sigh.

It had been two days since they had made contact with Sally. Apparently, she and Moz were still muddling through the vast records of Mozzie's university. They had to be careful, Mozzie had relayed; leaving any trail could be disastrous at this point. Although he understood the reasoning, Neal was still getting impatient for a breakthrough – and at the same time, he was dreading it.

_If they found the evidence – what were they going to do?_

The truth was that after thinking it over from different angles – _he still had no idea_.

Staring out of the window at the familiar skyline, he wished that Mozzie had been willing to go with their initial plan. Neal used to love New York, the city that never slept; for all his ties to it, the city always made him feel strangely liberated. But now he felt restless, tied down, trapped. He couldn't contact any of his people in case that they were being watched. He couldn't go back to his job, and he couldn't come within a hundred feet of any museum or gallery. He wished he could drop by at Hale's or return to his place at June's. But for Mozzie's sake, he had to be careful.

_Mozzie. _

Neal still wasn't sure where Sally had her place. He trusted her – or as much as you could trust a hacker who nicknamed herself "the Vulture" – but he wasn't sure that she truly understood the dangers outside of her virtual world. And every day, Moz came to her place when she called him; traveling on his own, vulnerable, unprotected. If anything happened…

_Calm down, it will be fine._

_Will it?_

Neal stared at the Chrysler building in the horizon and wished that he was back in the time when his only concern was for himself.

A beeping of the oven told him that the dinner was done.

Neal hoped that Mozzie would be home soon.

o - o - o

Peter didn't even try to hide his smile as he came out of the interrogation room and met with his team.

"Well, it looks like Chang is willing to give us all the information on his partner in exchange for a deal."

Diana smiled. "Good job, boss."

Peter cleared his throat. "All right, listen up! Great job, everyone. Jones, Diana, I trust you can wrap it up here?"

"You in a hurry for your date with Elizabeth?" grinned Jones.

"Yes, and don't call me unless there's a dead body," replied Peter.

Diana and Jones exchanged a look. "Got it. Enjoy your dinner, boss."

Peter smiled again. "I fully intend to."

Collecting things into his briefcase, Peter then took the elevator and headed to the parking garage. It had been a good day, he thought contently. The only thing missing from perfection was the fact that they hadn't found any new lead on Neal and his friend. What were they doing now?

_Oh damn - he was doing it again._

He would not obsess about Neal, especially not now. As Peter started his car, he thought about El and the fact that they were finally going to have that dinner that he had promised her. With a bit of guilt, he realized that it had been way too long since they last went out together. Although both Peter and El had busy careers, the last few weeks had been mostly on him.

Peter was surprised when he realized just how _much_ he was looking forward to this dinner. Right there and then, he decided that job or no job, he needed to spend more time with El.

They would find a way to make it work out. They always did.

Peter smiled.

o - o - o

"Well, that's it."

"You mean…"

"That's all I can get from the university," said Sally.

"Oh." Feeling numb, Mozzie stared at the computer screen. "Well, thanks for trying."

"Don't worry, I'm not done yet," said Sally resolutely. "But I figured that this is as good time as any to take a break."

"Sure. Whatever you need."

Stretching her shoulders, Sally stood up and left the room, leaving Mozzie alone still staring at the screen.

_So… this was it._

He had been right, thought Moz mirthlessly, that much Sally had been able to tell him. According to her, someone had repeatedly accessed his research – and they had done a hell of a job to cover their tracks. However, when Sally had tried to follow the trail, she had hit a dead end. As she commented, _'whoever was behind that knew exactly what they were doing.'_

He had been right, but he was just as helpless as before when it came to proving it.

He was still deep in thoughts when his cell-phone beeped. He looked at it and discovered a new text.

_Hey. Care for something 2 drink?_

Staring at Sally's message, Mozzie slowly grinned. The first time she had done this, his reaction had been one of alarm and paranoia, thinking that they had been found. Sally's lair was a large loft apartment with open space and newspaper-covered walls; why text him when she could just as easily call him and he would have heard her? But that had been three days ago – and since then, Mozzie had gotten used to her quirk.

"Coming," he called and turned around. Then he followed Sally into the kitchen. "Hey, I…" Suddenly, his breath got caught in his throat.

Sally was barefoot, dressed only in a tank top and shorts. She was faced away from him, rummaging through the drawers around the kitchen counter before she opened the fridge and crouched down by it. "So, orange juice? Tomato? Cranberry?" She paused for a moment before she stood up and turned around. "Or if you're not too thirsty, we could have a real drink."

When Mozzie remained silent, Sally looked his way. "Hey! Earth to Mozzie. What do you want to drink?"

"Oh.! Right, the drink! Umm… yeah." Shaking his head to stop staring at Sally's perfect profile, Moz cleared his throat. "The orange juice would be perfect, thanks."

Sally smiled. "Cool."

She poured them both a glass and gracefully took the bar-chair by the kitchen counter. Self-consciously, Mozzie climbed the chair next to her, his feet awkwardly dangling in the air. For a while, they sipped the juice in silence.

"So, where do we go from now?" asked Mozzie at last.

"We'll see. I have a couple ideas," said Sally with a shrug. She reached for more of the juice when she winced and tensed. "Ouch."

"What?" asked Moz.

Sally sighed. "I think I've been sitting in front of the screen for too long. My back and shoulders are all stiff."

"Oh." Mozzie tilted his head. "Well, I could try to… help with that."

Sally stared at him across the counter. Then she smiled. "Are you offering to give me a massage?"

That was exactly what he had been thinking. And the way she said it… but was he deluding himself?

"Umm. Maybe? I could try… I don't know if I'm any good, but–"

Suddenly his phone beeped. Mozzie jerked in surprise before he realized that Sally had texted him again. He hadn't even noticed that she held the phone in her hand hanging freely by her side.

"Uh…"

_Offer accepted._

He grinned. "Right. I'll do my best."

He started climbing down the chair when he realized that Sally was still typing.

_Meet me in my bedroom?_

Mozzie stilled.

_Did she really just…_

"Wow. That is… If-if I understand this right…"

Sally lifted an eyebrow at Mozzie's stammering. "Is that a yes?"

_She _did_ mean it._

"That is – yes! I mean… I mean if you're sure?"

Sally smiled. "I'll be waiting."

o - o - o

"Finally!" Neal exhaled in relief when Mozzie closed the door to their apartment. "It's almost midnight. Where the hell have you been?" Although he had known that Mozzie was with Sally, he had spent the last two hours imagining all the ways things could have gone wrong.

_Mozzie had been randomly recognized. Mozzie and Sally had attracted the CIA's attention and had been dragged away. Mozzie had been run over by a random cab or killed in a street mugging._

_Now who was getting paranoid here._

"I got delayed at Sally's place," replied Moz after he took off his jacket and left it at the coat-rack. "Anyway. Do you want the good news first or the bad news?"

"The bad news?"

"We'll have to hack the CIA database," said Mozzie.

"Damn it." Neal ran a hand through his hair. "I was really hoping that Sally would find a way to avoid that."

"Well you did initially contact her with that idea," Mozzie pointed out.

"True. But I hoped that she'd find a way that wouldn't make it necessary. … This is bad, Moz."

"Yeah, I figured that, Neal."

Neal paused. "You know, I've been thinking… there is one other way. It would be risky, but… if I went to your university and poked around –"

"We're too late," interrupted him Moz. "According to Sally, the CIA have erased all traces of their presence there. There's nothing there now."

"Damn it."

Neal dropped himself into an armchair and buried his face in his hands.

Mozzie sat down opposite him. "Hey man, it's not so bad. I mean, Sally and a computer – she is _awesome_. We'll find a way."

Neal raised his head. "Yeah, when you still don't know even where to look?"

"We do now." Mozzie gave him a triumphant smile. "We got some names."

Neal looked at him in surprise. "You… what?"

"A few of the people at the university apparently knew what was going on. We found out through the emails. It's not much, but…"

"But it's something factual."

For a moment, Neal and Mozzie remained in thoughtful silence.

"They probably used code-names for them," stated Neal at lost.

"Probably. But…"

"But it's a start," said Neal.

Mozzie smiled. "Exactly. It's a start."

o - o - o

The next few days went by fast, and before long, Neal realized that it had already been a week since they came to New York. However, they still didn't know the location of the CIA laboratory, although Mozzie had assured him that he and Sally were making good progress.

As he was staring at the calendar one day, it occurred to Neal that tomorrow was June's charity event, an art auction for the American Kidney Association. Nearly three months ago, he had helped June find the place and talked to the event planner with her, making sure that everything would run smoothly. While June might not have really needed his assistance, she had allowed it, and Neal had really appreciated the opportunity. It involved art, it enabled him to repay June a bit for her everyday kindness and friendship, it was for a good cause – and the planning had been a lot of fun. Neal had been genuinely looking forward to accompanying June to the auction.

Except now that wasn't possible.

June had put a lot of effort into the fundraiser. Hopefully the evening would go well, without any hitches. Then Neal thought of June – of course it would go well. June was a force to be reckoned with, as anyone who might mistake her smooth manners for weakness realized sooner or later.

He had made June a promise that he was about to break. For a moment, Neal truly wished that he could go, and if this had been just about him, he would have found a way one way or another. But he had to think about Moz and even Sally. Alerting the FBI to their presence in New York could only lead to a disaster.

Even though he couldn't come to the auction, Neal wanted to let June know that he was okay, give her a sign that he didn't forget about her. He would have to stay inconspicuous, but there had to be a way. June was a smart woman, she could figure out whatever code or message he sent her.

Then he got just the right idea.

Flowers – elegant, classic and simple. They would raise no suspicion and only June would know what was going on.

Nothing could go wrong with it.

o - o - o

While Sally was asleep, Mozzie shifted in the bed, careful not to pull the sheet off her as he picked up his clothes from the floor. When he was mostly dressed, he stood up and quietly made his way to the kitchen. The pot of tea was still on the counter where they had left it. Mozzie poured himself a cup and then sat down by the table.

_And wondered what the hell he was doing here._

Everything had been different a month ago. He had been busy with getting the approval for the next stage of their testing. He had been worried about trying to persuade his boss to possibly approach another department for cooperation. He had been both nervous and excited about the celebration party for their extremely promising results, because even years later, he still hadn't quite gotten used to the fact that unlike high school, he wasn't that odd kid anymore and his team actually accepted him. He had been planning to arrange for a weekend with his dad. Finally, he had been thinking about asking out Martha, the cute receptionist that he had met a few times when he had been to the hospital to discuss his project with the medical teams.

It had been a perfectly ordinary life, with boring rules and taxes and daily routine. It was the kind of life that had seemed like a Holy Grail once – a myth, a legend, something unattainable to the little kid in the orphanage who secretly hoped that one day his parents would come and take him home. To the outside world, Mozzie had officially given up on that dream once he had turned six years old; he had given up on it after being framed for the theft in his first foster family; had given up on it after being beaten down in the streets of Detroit – until Mr. Jeffries introduced him to the Handersons. Then over the years, the dream somehow had become reality.

Now it was all gone, and Mozzie couldn't even begin to grasp how he felt about that anymore.

He wanted his life back, of course. That was the right answer anyway.

_He had never thought that he would be in a relationship with an FBI-wanted hacker. And he hadn't been this close to Neal in years._

He didn't even know Sally's real name, although she knew his.

Even if the CIA eventually left him alone, he couldn't just step back into his old shoes. He could not pretend that nothing happened.

Could he?

Was he Paul Handerson? Was he Mozzie? Either way, he certainly knew how to pick the right time for existential doubts, thought Moz sarcastically.

Maybe, as the Bard himself once said, _'all__ the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players'_.

"Well, now I feel truly flattered. Did you really ditch me just to stare at an empty tea mug?"

Mozzie looked up at Sally in the doorway. "Of course not! I –" He paused. "Oh. You're kidding."

Sally gave him a small smile. "Am I?"

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the silence awkward yet not really uncomfortable.

"I think –"

"You know –"

They both stopped mid-sentence. Then they chuckled.

Finally, it was Sally who spoke. "All right! Let's get back to work."

Mozzie left his cup on the kitchen counter and followed her to her computers.

o - o - o

The "art auction" had been going on for only an hour or so, yet Peter was already hard-pressed to keep a pleasant-slash-interested expression and play the part of a good escort.

He repeatedly reminded himself that this was for a good cause. He nodded and laughed at all the right places as he and Elizabeth carried out another meaningless conversation with a group of rich people that he had never seen before in his life. Following the example of the others, he spent a few seconds staring at the finger paintings made by sick kids and then ignored them for discussions about movie stars and politics. Eventually though, Peter decided that he truly needed a break.

"You're absolutely right, Amanda. Will you excuse me for a moment?" he said to El and the group potential contributors and slipped to the restroom.

Once inside, Peter pressed his palms against the sink and released a breath of relief.

After calming down, he took care of the business and washed his hands. With a bit of a guilty feeling, he took out his smart phone to check the current score of the Yankee game that was still being played. Peter smiled when he realized that his team seemed to be winning, and silently mourned the fact that he was there on this event instead of at home, watching the game on TV. Then he sighed and went to once again rejoin the auction.

Right across the hall, Elizabeth was involved in an animated discussion with some potential contributors. As he observed her from afar, Peter felt the negative emotions slip away and slowly formed a smile. El looked truly gorgeous tonight in her sleek, fashionable dress, high heels, pulled-up hair and bright shining smile. Peter could tell that El was enjoying herself, navigating the sea of higher class society in a graceful manner that had always evaded him, and for a moment, Peter just watched her talking to various people and admired how she seemingly always found a common topic with them, always appeared to be interested even though she must have inevitably been bored at times, always found a way to make them feel special.

Then suddenly, Elizabeth looked his way. She smiled, excused herself and walked across the hall to meet Peter in front of some of the children's paintings.

"Hey hon," she greeted him. "So, who's winning the match?"

"What?" Peter was startled that she had seen right through him. "El, I didn't –"

Elizabeth gave him a knowing look. "Honey, how long have we been married?"

"But I –" Peter sighed. "Twelve years," he answered dutifully. "And all right, you know me, I was checking the score. I'm sorry hon –"

"Well who's winning then?"

Peter stilled. Then he grinned at El's bossy tone and retold her what little he had learned from his smart phone.

"I'm recording it… we could watch it later if you wanted."

"You mean, just the two of us, a couple beers, Satchmo at our feet –"

"Exactly."

El smiled. "Sounds great."

Peter could never understand how in the world had he gotten so lucky that he had married this woman.

El lightly squeezed his hand. "Now come on, let's mingle."

Together, they circled the room and stopped in front of some of the paintings. They read the text on the information boards to learn a bit more about the charity and stopped for a while at the buffet table.

"I'm so glad you went with me, Peter," said El at last. "You know I love organizing these things. But it's so nice sometimes to just be there as an observer and not to have to handle everything… to watch how the competition works, relax, have fun…"

Peter smiled. "I understand."

"Look," said Elizabeth suddenly. "There's June Ellington. Let's go say hi."

"Hon, I don't think that's a good idea. Maybe you should go without me –"

"Nonsense! She'll be happy to see you. Besides, June's a professional. Now come on!"

Peter silently debated the merits of talking El out of her idea. He had met June at a few events before and they had been on semi-friendly terms – that is, until recently, when he had started investigating Neal again. He was sure that June would be less than pleased with his presence here. In the end though, his desire to please El and admittedly also his curiosity won over his doubts.

As it turned out, he needn't have worried. Their conversation turned out to be short, polite and perfectly non-informative. El and June had barely exchanged some pleasantries and talked a bit about the charity when they were interrupted by the head of the security.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Ellington. I need to talk to you for a moment."

"It seems like I have to go," said June with a smile. "Elizabeth, Agent Burke – I hope to see you later."

"Of course," replied El.

They watched as June and the man walked away. Peter could distantly hear June ask a question and receiving a short answer before they continued on in silence.

"Well!" exclaimed El suddenly. "How about we –"

"Hold on, hon," interrupted her Peter suddenly.

June and the security leader were walking out of the room. June Ellington, a known friend of Neal Caffrey…

'_He wouldn't,'_ thought Peter. And yet his gut was screaming at him that this was important.

"I need to check this out," he stated aloud.

Elizabeth frowned. "Peter…? Peter!"

But Peter's attention was fixed on June and her companion, watching as they slipped out and closed the door behind themselves.

"He's there," he said at last.

"What…"

"Neal's there."

"What?! _Peter_. _**Not today –**_"

"I'm sorry hon," said Peter. Abandoning his wife, he swiftly walked across the room to where June Ellington had disappeared. He threw the door open.

"Oh."

"Is there a problem, sir?"

Caffrey wasn't there. Instead, both June and the security chief turned to him, seemingly interrupted in the middle of a discussion.

"Agent Burke. Are you looking for something?" asked June in a polite but dismissive tone. She was holding a vase with a beautiful bouquet.

"No, I – I must have gotten the wrong door. I apologize."

Blushing heavily, Peter closed the door again and turned around, only to come head to head with Elizabeth.

"Peter…?"

There was a long moment of silence.

"I'm sorry, El," he said at last.

"I can't do this again," said El slowly. "I won't."

"El, my job –"

"This isn't about you being an agent," interrupted him Elizabeth. "It's about this – this obsessive mindset that you fall into whenever Neal is involved."

"Hon –"

"Four years, Peter! For _four years_ of our marriage you were chasing him. I just – "

"I know." Peter swallowed. "I know. And I'm sorry."

He had known that the last time had been hard on El. But only now did he realize how bad it had probably been.

El sighed. "Just promise me that this won't be like the last time?"

"It won't. I promise."

Suddenly, the door opened again and both June and her head of security walked out.

"Thank you for your help, Martin," said June to the chief. Then she nodded at them. "Agent Burke, Elizabeth. I hope that you are enjoying the evening."

Peter smiled. "We are, thank you."

With one more smile at them, June walked away, the flowers that Peter had seen her with before still in her hands.

Turning back to El, Peter cleared his throat. "Look, how about we call it a night and go home? I mean, we don't have to, but – "

"Now _that_ was one expensive flower," stated Elizabeth suddenly.

Peter frowned. It seemed that El wasn't paying any attention to him. "Sorry?"

Shaking her head, El turned back to him and smiled. "I'm sorry, I was just admiring June's bouquet… from Banchet Flowers, you know. Anyway, what did you say to me?"

"What was special about that flower?" asked Peter.

"It's from Banchet Flowers," repeated El. "They're one of the New York's best florists… pretty expensive though. Those vases are typical for them."

"Wait a second…"

Peter paused. An idea was suddenly forming in his head…

"I need to get a photo of that flower."

o - o - o

When Neal came into his temporary apartment that day, he was in a better mood than he had been for weeks.

According to his source, June's fundraiser yesterday evening had been a huge success; Mozzie insisted that he and Sally were on a brink of a breakthrough, the CIA hadn't found them yet…

_And he had made a back-up plan for them if everything went to hell or worse._

For a second, Neal grimaced.

Mozzie wouldn't have liked the back-up plan. He had made them both foolproof identities – using the birth certificates of dead infants, something that he had always abhorred and swore never to do. But desperate times called for desperate measures. Besides, what Moz didn't know wouldn't hurt him, and if this was what it took to keep his friend safe, then Neal would rather pay the price with his conscience than see him hurt.

Tonight, he would tell Mozzie about the location of their "Plan B" kit. Softly humming to himself and putting on an apron, Neal started making dinner.

The sauce was good, decided Neal half an hour later, although it could maybe use a pinch of pepper to highlight the taste. He put the pasta off the stove and started playing with the sauce. He smiled when he heard the sound of the door opening. "Hey, Moz. How did it go tonight?"

He turned around, the cooking spoon half the way to his mouth. Then he froze.

"I guess this makes me 2-0."

"Peter – "

"Hello again, Neal. You're under arrest."

o - o - o

Staring at the blue screen, Mozzie was barely breathing.

At last, he casted a look at Sally. "Do you think…"

"I don't think, I know."

There, in small letters at the bottom of some financial records, was the name that they had been trying to discover for nearly two weeks.

PROJECT LETHE.

Mozzie swallowed.

"I need to tell Neal," he said at last.

"Sure," said Sally with a shrug.

With his hands shaking, Mozzie pulled out his phone and dialed Neal's number. The cell phone rang.

… and rang….

…and rang.

"What the…"

'_This user has not activated their voicemail yet. Try again later,'_ said an artificial voice at the other end of the line.

"Of course he hasn't activated his voicemail," exclaimed Mozzie. "It's not like we're _trying_ to be found or something."

Sally stood up and loosely put her arms around Mozzie's shoulders. "Hey. What's going on?"

Moz exhaled. "Neal's not picking up my call."

"Well, he probably just stepped out of the room," said Sally reasonably.

"Yeah. Probably." Mozzie dialed the number again, trying to suppress his irrational feeling of unease.

Sally pressed a small kiss on the side of his neck and then pulled back. "You want some tea?"

"Sure! Great!"

The cellphone rang again…

'_This user has not activated their voicemail yet. Try again later.'_

"Neal, what the hell –"

For the third time, Mozzie dialed the familiar number.

And finally, Neal picked up.

"Neal!" exclaimed Mozzie. "Thank God – I was getting worried. Why weren't you –"

Mozzie stilled as he heard the sound of something breaking from the other end of the line.

"Neal…?"

_Distant cursing. Yelling. Scratching sounds._

"_They found me," _wheezed Neal weakly. _"Peter… I made a mistake…"_

Mozzie's insides turned into ice. "What… Who –"

_Running footsteps. More yelling. A thud and a yelp. Tires screeching, the sound of a honking car…_

"_**NEAL!**_ What's going on?"

…

"_Don't go back."_

"Hey, you can't – "

"_I'll ditch the phone in a minute. If I don't contact you again in an hour, get out of the country. Tell your companion "first time, park". She'll know what I meant. There's papers, money… enough to get you started."_

"I'm not leaving you," said Mozzie resolutely. "If you get caught, I'll find you."

A chuckle. _"Good joke, Moz."_

"It wasn't a joke, Neal."

Instead of running footsteps, Neal apparently slowed down into quick pace. _"Don't be stupid. The CIA will –"_

"I don't care! I'm not abandoning you!"

"_Moz, listen to me – GET. OUT." _

Mozzie took a deep breath. "If you don't tell me how can I help, I'll turn myself over to the CIA."

Silence.

"_Trust the Suit then," _said Neal at last.

The Suit…?

"_Goodbye, Moz."_

"What? Neal. NEAL!"

But the phone was dead.

Frantically, Mozzie dialed the number again. And waited.

Defeating silence.

Finally… _'This user has not activated their voicemail yet. Try again later.'_

Mozzie dialed the number again.

'_This user has not activated their voicemail yet. Try again later.'_

Again.

'_This user has not activated their voicemail yet. Try again later.'_

Again.

Again.

Again…

Finally, someone put a hand on his shoulder.

Looking up, Mozzie saw Sally standing by him again. Judging by her troubled expression, she had overheard at least most of the conversation. Together, they waited in silence.

An hour passed.

Two hours.

At some point, Sally left. When she returned, she placed a cup of tea in front of Moz. He didn't acknowledge her presence even as she gently intertwined her hand in his and squeezed his fingers.

They waited until the evening. Then they waited through the night.

"Moz. He's not going to call."

Silence.

"Moz!"

"_Paul_."

At last, Mozzie looked at Sally.

"It's already past dawn. He's not going to call, Moz."

Dizzily, Mozzie stood up. "I need to… to…" Sally caught his arm before he stumbled.

"Hey… Easy."

Mozzie closed his eyes and released a haggard breath. When he opened them, he was burning with new resolution. "I assume that you made sure that we couldn't have been electronically tracked…"

"I did."

"Good."

Silence.

"Let's get breakfast," suggested Sally after a while.

"I'm going to find this "Suit"," stated Mozzie. "I'm going to find Neal. And then I'll make them pay."

There was a hesitation before Sally gave him a sharp nod. "I can tell you where to start."

**END OF PART ONE**

* * *

_A/N: This is it for now; however, this story will have a second part that is already in writing – I only ended the fic here so that I could post it in time for the Big Bang fest._

_Thank you who have reviewed this story or added it to your alert/favorite list!_


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